Forged in Darkness: A Dark Brotherhood Tale
by Raven Studios
Summary: Sarielle left home and walked straight into the arms of the Dark Brotherhood. Now with a traitor threatening the only family she can belong to, Sarielle finds herself one of two who can stop the traitor. Rated T for adult themes, violence, and language.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: Okay – I know that this story skews the main quest slightly: it's late spring/early summer when the Emperor is assassinated, not late fall/early winter. Also, I do not intend this to be _just _another rehash of the DB plot – hopefully I'll be able to make this really unique. Fingers crossed, right? You can also find this story on DA.

Oblivion and all it's characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Prologue: Enter the Narrator

--S--

I've always loved to sing. I'm not great at it, but I can belt out a song when I want to, and not butcher it with squeaky high notes, or tone-deaf warbling. Tonight was one of those nights – it was absolutely beautiful. Surreal in a way I had never seen back home, and yet piercingly clear.

I should explain a few things. Best that I start at the beginning.

First off, my name is Sarielle. You don't need my surname. Secondly, I'm from Anvil, and I have no intention of going back. First off, there's my family – hence why I don't want to give out my surname. I'm quit of them, and that's that. There's also a little nasty business with the local Mages' Guild –to which I still belong, in name – involving a fool, an apple, and poison in the apple. Also a little matter of untimely death, _and_ an allergy to an ingredient in the poison, which rendered it doubly effective.

But that's his fault, not mine – I _told_ him 'don't eat anything you find on my workbench'.

He didn't want to listen.

I digress.

I'm currently well outside Skingrad, near a farm or something –there's an apple orchard. It's early in the season, so the apple blossoms are in full bloom – the height of the blooming season, if you want my opinion. I'm not in the city because I had _another_ rather nasty encounter – this one more or less my own making, unfortunately. Of course, no one can tie it to me, and I _was_ doing the city a favor…but the law won't see it that way.

Dare I justify myself? I don't know, but best you hear it from me, rather than from people just drawing conclusions. At least with me you'll have the truth, from the lips of someone who was there.

--S--

I arrived as Skingrad several nights ago, after leaving Anvil. Given the circumstances and nasty bit of unpleasantness clouding my leaving home, I didn't think it prudent to flop at the Mages' Guildhall, so I took a room at the West Weald Inn, down the street. It wasn't long before I was approached by _the_ twitchiest Bosmer I'd ever seen I my life. He said his name was Glarthir, that he had a job he thought I could do, and he'd pay well.

Well, you can imagine my reaction to this statement.

He quickly stammered it had nothing to do with 'that', when I gave him my frostiest look ever and asked him if he wanted to be able to enjoy his weekend. If so, he'd better keep walking.

I _am_ a mage, even if I'm not a great practitioner of destructive magicka. My skills are strongest in illusion magicka. However, the threat was sufficient and the Bosmer back up, as though my outright offer of violence was more welcome than what he was used to dealing with.

Perhaps that should have been a hint. Hindsight being what it is, it was most certainly a hint – one of several.

Glarthir said if I was interested, to meet him behind the Chapel of Dibella, after midnight, and then scuttled off, looking every which way as if he expected to be watched.

Now, I stood there, on the street corner thinking, and scowling mightily as I did so – the twitchiest Bosmer in the world struck me as being _highly_ paranoid. Chances were, it would be easy money, and chances were no one would get hurt.

I continued to muse. There were, of course, several drawbacks, and I was interrupted before I could weigh my options thoroughly.

That was when I was accosted – politely –by the city guard. Now, knowing I might be in a little trouble back home, and being a practitioner of the collage of illusion, I did the most natural thing in the world.

I spelled the guard - very subtly, just enough that he liked me enough to think 'she can't be involved in something like that'. Of course, he didn't really want to discuss anything that might have happened in Anvil – I guess I travel faster than bad news.

The guard wanted to warn me off, 'pretty lass' that I am, against getting mixed up with the town eccentric. After which he bade me tell the guard if anything odd happened, then bade me good day, and got on with walking his beat.

I continued to stand scowling, thoughtfully for a moment before my feet started to move of their own accord. I think better when I can move.

--S--

Well, like a fool, perhaps, I did go to meet Glarthir, behind Dibella's chapel – prepared to ruin his week not to mention his physical well-being if I had to. He was a little crazy.

And it got worse, by the time I told him the second person he had me follow wasn't involved in any kind of conspiracy…he suspected _me_ of complicity in said conspiracy. Which of course, doesn't seem to bode well – because I saw the crackle of madness behind his eyes. I was being paid well, to do basically nothing: just to keep tabs on people, make sure they weren't conspiring against him. An easy job, but one that was beginning to take on worrisome undertones.

Well, I didn't escape Anvil just to get into trouble _here_, and I can imagine this little fool going on the rampage, if left to his own devices – and that would put me on the list of casualties. Unacceptable, to my way of thinking. So I didn't tail the next person – it was painfully obvious that the conspiracy was all in Glarthir's head, even a fool would be able to see by now.

Instead, I went to the guard. But no proof is no proof and the guard said he could do nothing, not even detain the crazy 'mer based on my suspicions alone.

I met Glarthir on the street later that day, giving me furtive, suspicious looks that no one seemed to think were out of place.

I went back to the Inn and made up my mind: this 'mer is too dangerous. He'll undoubtedly snap at some point, and with my luck being what it is of late, it'll be at me. And I'm not much of a fighter. Oh, I 'know' how, but it's the practical application that would defeat me. And you know, crazy people are stronger than those who are sane. So rather than track his mark, I tracked him – found his residence, made sure I knew how to find it from the inn, how to get from the house to the inn, from the house to the city gates, in short order.

I told him that night, that I was investigating further. Wove him a tale that I had to proceed carefully, played upon his own paranoia –and was praised for being beautiful and brave. I didn't argue, merely assured him…assured him that I almost has this conspiracy unmasked.

Just give me more time. Only a little, and everything would come to its proper end. He liked this.

He was pleased, excited, as he paid me for my troubles.

I didn't want to be implicated. I had to plan, to plot. The idea of killing him didn't bother me much – the way I saw it I was doing the city a favor, as well as keeping my own hide intact. I had no qualms right now. I was sure if I just disappeared…well, he'd assume he had exposed me as a double agent and would track me down. Can't risk that – or rather, won't.

I've mentioned poison before: that's my other great strength. I'm something of an alchemist – I've been playing with herbs and reagents for years. One of my earliest memories was watching my no-good mother brewing up love potions and telling me – in a horrible mock-baby voice –what she was doing. How she was doing it. How it was perfectly done – she might have been worthless as a parent, but she knew her herbs, and she knew her magicka.

I bet both are coming handy, now that she's getting on in years.

Then come the memories of playing outside, under the careful eyes of my governess, pretending to make my own potions. Learning what things tasted like. How they worked. My mother is a fool, but she is not unintelligent. But I don't want to talk about her anymore, so I digress.

Mer like sweet things – another tip from my mother - though not as much as Khajiit.

Paranoid people won't accept something that they are just given, out of hand.

And I didn't think there were enough charm spells in all the world to make Glarthir trust me enough to just eat something I handed him. So I had to be a little more cunning. Sneaky. Devious – things I learned keeping my hobbies from my parents.

They had funny ideas about what was suitable and what was not. And I happen to be a rather willful person.

Glarthir was safely roaming about, making sure he wasn't being followed. His house was well-warded, but it was the work of a layman. Any mage with only a few months of training could get in – though undoubtedly he thought himself very safe and very clever.

It took time, time I knew I would have. It's harder to find a moving target, and my assertion that his supposed enemy was up to something had made him all the more anxious to keep moving, not to stay in one place too long.

It was a brilliant stroke of luck on my part.

Part of the plan was for this to look like a tragic accident. It had to be – or someone would suspect murder, and then the questions would start, and I'd have to stay put, in the city until it blew over. And each day after the investigations started would be more and more difficult. It was a hassle I did not want to deal with.

But, accidents happen, and Glarthir's death, if it looked like an accident, would not be investigated closely.

'Eccentricity got the best of him', and all.

So I poisoned the food, the drink, I had a small measure of a contact poison with me, from my days with the Guild, but I wasn't sure I wanted to use it. See, I wasn't planning to go into the city proper again. In fact, the guards thought I had already left, you see.

I told them that Glarthir was beginning to frighten me, and that I would be better off in the Imperial City than here. And the guard in question smiled and agreed – a nice girl like me could make her way easily there. Join the Arcane University, and become a great arcanist. Forget crazy Bosmer.

So, I have an alibi. All in all, for being planned on a short timetable, I was quite pleased with myself.

--S--

I've always loved planning elaborate schemes for things, and even better, love implementing grand schemes. Like the time I tried to divert my parents from their pastimes, and wound up setting fire to the kitchen. I had been intending to force the candles at dinner to gutter, then relight: but as I said, I'm not a great destructive collegiate, and my spell fizzled, and the next thing I knew, it was everywhere.

Fortunately, it's easier to ward yourself against magicka, than to employ it as a weapon. Lucky me.

I explored the house, checked the basement, the upstairs bedroom – found myself a little niche that was out of the way. The poisons were fast-acting. Those would actually kill him – once he was dead, had gasped out his last, I'd make the death look like an accident.

It was easier that way. I was thinking a nasty fall down stairs to break his neck. Glarthir will be heavy – he was a pretty solid individual, quite short for a Bosmer – but a feather spell would take care of some of that.

--S--

Glarthir came home for a brief time late that evening, while it was getting dark. It was a tense, stressful thing for me to wait in my little niche, hidden by a chameleon spell and praying he wouldn't notice the telltale ripple that would betray my presence to wary and watchful eyes.

Glarthir made his supper. He wolfed it down. The 'mer drinks too much.

He was dead before he could get the dishes to the wash basin – collapsed on the ground, dead as a doornail. No thrashing, no flailing about, just a sudden intake of breath as he stumbled, as the poison rushed through his body, and then…dead.

First was to break his neck. That wasn't easy – I wound up having to heft him to the landing and put him over the rails three times before he finally landed properly – I wished now that I had learned a telekinesis type spell – something that would have let me manipulate him from the landing as he fell. Then I had to move him to the basement door, and cast him down the stairs, casting his supper things after him. That made a lot of noise. Hopefully someone would hear it, and assume he'd had a little too much of the bottle.

Then I had to clean up the mess he'd left between dinner table and kitchen – so that it didn't look like he'd died there. That took some time, but before the night was half-gone, I was finished, and on my way.

I had the oddest feeling as I crept out the back door, that I was being watched. That somewhere, just behind me, lurked darkness, ready to reach out and draw me in. And if you're a mage, you know better than to just ignore that sort of feeling. It's usually accurate.

I didn't like it, though when I looked, when I cast a detect life spell, there was no trace of a person who should not have been there. I left the city, still under the cover of a chameleon spell and darkness. I'd find a place to camp, and then head for the Imperial City.

--S--

I found my camp outside Skingrad, and took up residence for the night. It was a lovely place, as I said, near an orchard, all silver with apple blossom. The beauty was intoxicating. The fact that I had just staged a death that couldn't be traced back to me - my own cleverness - was intoxicating.

The fact that for that death, I would never be caught, never be connected…was sheer brilliance.

I reached into my travel bag and produced a bottle of wine and opened it, taking a deep draught and then, with a laugh that bubbled up from my own toes, intoxicated by my own cleverness and starting to get there with the wine, I started to sing.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: special thanks to the Oblivion-Wiki, which allowed me to research the world I'm writing about so well. Originally I was going to rate this "T" but on checking the guidelines for , I decided to err on the side of caution. This is a story about assassins, after all, though the high rating is for the...profusion...of bad language. Believe me – it was a hard choice. It can be found rated T+ on DA.

Also – the punctuation here may strike the well-trained eye as being horrendous: ti's not. Because punctuation, int his first-person narrative, is being used to simulate a character's speech patterns, flagging pauses, and the duration of pauses. Just so you know.

Special thanks to L'Ankou, here on – here it is!

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter One: The Offer

--

The smell of apple blossoms was so thick I could have walked on it: intoxicating in and of themselves but with the bottle of wine in one hand and the goblet in the other, I was on my way to a truly spectacular state of drunken bliss – the promised hangover was not my concern right now.

The whole world as washed silver as Masser and Secundus rose higher and higher, the holes forming in them winking and blinking like star-studded eyes, until I finally collapsed against one of the white blossom-festooned trees and drained the wine from my goblet, taking in the hazing beauty around me.

I love to sing.

Not the new songs, necessarily, the old ones, the ones everyone seems to know. The songs you hum under your breath, sung by the spinners in the sun, or farmers in their fields, when they have breath for such careless pastimes, or by mothers to babes in their cradles.

Despite the rather gloomy fact, that I was now a killer, I didn't really mind. Too overcome with my own cleverness – too well staged. There was no way it could come back to me, unless I'd made a mistake. And I was sure I had not – I'm a perfectionist. That was one of the few traits that got me any approval at the Mages' Guild.

In fact, I couldn't help but think back...find the flaws. Find counters for them…it was careless, I'll admit, to have gotten involved at all. I should have buttered up more of the guards, stayed in town, until the body was found. But with Glarthir…he'd be missed only because he was no longer present. Not because anyone cared. In fact, I further doubted the investigation would run too long, or look too deep.

I'd used subtle poison in his most common kitchen ingredients, they'd have to be looking for subtle poison to find any. The one I had used…it left no mark, no telltale sign when ingested. In a wound, though, as with a knife, there would have been hints, clues, telltale discoloration around the wound.

Hence why I had wanted him to eat it. Drink it down.

Murder? I guess it was. So why don't I feel bad about it?

The sense that I was being watched persisted. I had not come unarmed into the wilds – I had a dagger. I had my magicka. And I kept the knife close at hand when I finally had to rest.

--S--

I woke up with three quarters of the night gone, feeling an unseasonable chill and stood up, fumbling for my knife, which was no longer in my hand, clutched to my breast like a child with her favorite toy, rather than a woman with a weapon.

"Are you looking for this, perhaps?" a pleasant-sounding voice asked quite calmly.

I hadn't seen him at first – he was dressed head to foot in black robes, the moonlight casting the majority of his visible features into thick shadow. He was holding my knife delicately in one gloved hand. I could see the glitter of eyes in the shadows of his hood, a strong jawline that was scruffy from want of a shave. Standing side-by-side, I was perhaps, half a head shorter, especially as I was wearing a mage's slippers, instead of heavy boots.

"Yes…" I cocked my head, blinking a little owlishly. I was still feeling the effects my drinking binge – something I haven't done since I was eighteen. I suppose I could paralyze him if I had to…but there's something…strange about him. And it's not strangeness that can be easily defined. And so far, he had offered me no harm – though he could have done, if he was close enough to take my knife from me – especially without waking me.

And yet I knew without really needing to think hard, that _this_ was a dangerous person. It would be unwise to jump into a fight without knowing what I was up against. And I had the nasty feeling that I did not have the element of surprise. That I could act the innocent, simple girl as much as I wanted, and would not fool him.

"You sleep very soundly for a murderess…" he said rather idly, as if telling me that I looked good in green. Which I don't, actually, but that's hardly the point.

I smiled thinly – though I wasn't really amused. "Do I _look_ like killer?" I asked archly, lacing my fingers and folding my hands before my midriff, drawing myself up to full height. To a layman, a mage with her hands so occupied doesn't seem able to cast a spell as quickly as she might, if her hands were at her sides, free, and ready. This isn't actually the case, but impressions are everything.

Besides: I'm not about to _confess_ to Glarthir's death – that would make all my hard work worthless. There was a chance, albeit small I suspected, he was only trying to rattle me...but, as I said, I was beginning to suspect more and more that this was not the case at all. Everyone's heard the rumors – and it would explain why I felt like I was being followed for a better part of the night.

'They say when you murder someone, the Dark Brotherhood comes to you in your sleep. It's how they recruit new members.' I must say, my 'visitor', shall we call him, certainly met every expectation I had, for an emissary of the Assassins' Guild. Perhaps especially because he was well-spoken, or at least, gave that impression.

I saw his mouth move in the shadows of his hood, a smile, and the glitter of what were probably dark eyes. "Only around the eyes, madam," this was said politely.

"Who are you?" I asked bluntly, squinting into the shadows of his hood. "What do you want of me?" what I was really asking for was just a name, I was sure, by now, who he represented. Though, I was a little surprised that we were having this talk.

Glarthir _would_ have gone nuts, sooner or later. Better he go quietly, lest he take someone else with him. Like me.

My visitor smiled here and reached up and carefully –as he still had my dagger – pulled his hood back far enough that his face appeared. He wasn't too much older than me, and had a clever, intelligent face. You could practically see the glimmer of a clever mind behind his eyes, which did more to reassure me than the sight of a living face at all.

Who knew: he _might_ have been a lich or some other undead thing – and I don't like undead things. They're gross, by and large. "Such sound sleep and…recklessness…" he looked around the camp, the word delicately inflected to mean 'foolish abandon', "indicates a clear conscience. And believe me, madam, you will _need_ a clear conscience for what I am about to propose."

Dark eyes were boring into my face. "I would consider carefully any proposal you might make, _sir_," I warned, the same way I'd warned Glarthir when he'd first approached me, though my smile stayed in place for this visitor, "I do have standards."

He inclined his head, conceding the point. "Don't we all?"

Ouch – but I love this game! A battle of wits. Verbal chess –though I don't play chess enough to make any further allegory. I smiled here, a genuine smile. "Then perhaps you would be so kind as to begin by giving me your name, Master…" I trailed off.

"Lachance," he said simply as I unlaced my fingers and pointed at the ring of stones I had prepared for a fire, should I need it. I spoke the word that ignited the wood, a simple cantrip, and motioned him to one side. "Lucien Lachance."

"Sarielle," I did not sit down, but stood, hands re-laced and resting against my stomach, watching Lucien Lachance closely. He arched one dark eyebrow when I did not give a surname but I shook my head. I have no intention of using it. "Perhaps you will now entertain me with your proposal," I smiled. "Do you care for a drink?"

"Not at all, madam, this _is_ business."

I smiled. "Very well, let's hear your 'business'."

Pleasantries on both sides.

He smiled back, but it did not touch his eyes, which remained calculating, and fixed upon my face, as if he were looking through my skin to read a scroll with my personality, my very soul written upon it. "I am a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. And _you_, my lady, are a killer. A taker of life. A harvester of souls," he said this very calmly, as if reading off scholastic achievements. I didn't even prickle with annoyance at the phrase 'my lady', which is overused and generally condescending. Or, it was where I grew up. Here, it was simply a variant of 'madam', which maintained a sense of formality that using my given name would have shattered.

I had to admit, I was impressed. However, this was second to the cold hand of fear that gripped my stomach and the fine tremor that ran through my entire body.

It sounded worse when someone else said it. "I…those…" I stammered. I hadn't meant to stammer, I had meant to say something…enigmatic. See if I could throw him off the scent…but maybe it was the assessing way he was looking at me, or maybe it was his tone, which was anything but condemning. And it put me off balance.

"You needn't stammer, my dear," Lucien said rather kindly, though I didn't believe a word of it. He was keeping me from overreacting and ruining his point, whatever that might be. But I think I already know. "The first was sloppy, but the second was…properly executed," he smirked slightly at his word choice. "A stroke of brilliance – making it look like an accident. You'll have fooled the guard, I'm quite certain."

Even if I hadn't, I could have charmed anyone questioning me, and then wormed my way out. The false smile I had been wearing had slipped off, like water slipping down a window, leaving my expression set, cold, and grim.

I looked at Lucien in silence.

It was undeniably true, the idiot who'd gotten hold of my poisoned apple had been making my life miserable...but I didn't _mean_ to kill him…or did I? Deep in the recesses of my mind…hadn't I _known_ that if I said 'don't do that' that the fool _would_, just to spite me?

He's good, this Lucien Lachance…making me second guess myself.

Lucien let me think for moment more.

He'd been so horrible, and I'd been so tired of it…so tired of the _guild_. So many rules, too many books…not enough practical application…and the idiots in charge, so caught up in their petty intrigues and power plays that they'd lost all sense of what it was to be a mage…never mind that I hadn't wanted to be there in the first place…

He's really good.

"Your work, your deathcraft, pleases the Night Mother – she sees your skills and counts them as…highly valuable," Lucien said gently, and I shot him a look. He was not to be allowed to take the seductive track, he'd be taking the wrong track with the wrong girl, and I would lose all respect for him.

Like I said, I have standards, and cavorting around with an assassin is _not_ on. I have looks, I know I do. But I have much more going for me in the brains department.

"Master Lachance…" I said, warning in my tone. Though, I have to admit, it's best I nip that whole 'seduced by the dark side' thing in the bud…because honestly, between you and me, he could get away with that kind of persuasion with anyone but me. I was safe because I was caught between approval of his speechcraft, and annoyance with him.

He isn't exactly bad-looking. And definitely not old enough to be my father. Not even close...but I'm not _that_ shallow. "Please do not _insult_ my _intelligence_. I…know why you are here. I know what you want."

He smiled, a proper smile. "Of course. And as is proper when dealing with a such an _intelligent_ young lady, I come to you with an offering. An opportunity... to join our rather unique family," he inclined his head, and then bowed slightly at the waist, and I felt that the word intelligent had been meant as a high compliment.

All ruffled feathers were soothed under the praise of mental capacity.

"Very well, let us hear what you have to say," I responded with due politeness. No need to be rude, after all…

"Listen carefully. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. Do you know it?" he asked.

I shook my head, but I also figured if I needed to…I could find it. "No, not really, but I'm sure I can get there, if need or wish takes me," I answered diplomatically.

"There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do the deed, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure," he looked around the camp – it was apparent he wouldn't call this place 'secure'. Well, it wasn't. I privately wondered if he would have been able to sleep here, exposed as it was. "I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family. It is that simple."

I smiled, but it was rather like the smile he wore, a mask, something you did with your mouth to put other people at ease, or make them think you liked them, or were happy. "That simple?" I asked. "Tell me, Master Lachance. Do I _really_ look like a killer?" I did want an answer for this – though I applaud his previous answer.

'_Only around the eyes_.'

"It is a point in your favor," Lucien smiled. "And that is why it is you, and not the alley basher that come septim a dozen, _Sarielle_," he said, almost a purr. "The Night Mother is never wrong, and she has seen you, chosen you to undergo this…test," Lucien said with a certainty that was saved from being zealotry by calm tones and the fact that I had the impression that this was not a person who had the _capacity_ for zealotry – and if he did, wouldn't be very good at it, he's got a brain under his hood. Devotion to a cause, yes. But not zealotry – because sooner or later that in itself would hurt his cause…and that was unacceptable.

Interesting…layers upon layers…a puzzle. I love puzzles – puzzles and plans and preparation…

"Perhaps you will permit me to present you a gift? It shall be yours, regardless of whether you decide to end Rufio's existence or not…" he reached slowly, deliberately with his dagger free hand into his cloak and when he removed it he was holding a dagger in a sheath, both were black, and the metal chasing on the leather, and the hilt were matted, almost black themselves. Looking closer, there was a belt to go with them, black as pitch, so I didn't see it at first. He palmed my dagger so fast I didn't see how he did it, and stepped around the fire, holding the blade in both hands. "It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood."

Gross.

I didn't move for a moment, but neither did he. And I was sure that if need be, he would stand that way all night. I reached up slowly, taking a few shuffled steps forward, almost as if drugged, the movement seemed so slow, and my hand closed about the warm leather of the scabbard and I lifted the blade from his hands, and unsheathed it. The whole affair was black, like onyx, though it did not reflect light. There was a single word etched into the blade in an elegant script, "WOE".

The Blade of Woe, as I began to think of it, was the length of my hand and forearm, light and thin, an easy weapon for a woman to use. I'm not exactly imposing – as I said my eyelevel rode about chin-height on Lucien, and I've got a rather willowy build, something I have lamented in the past. I've seen fifteen-year-olds with better curves than me –it's a little nettling.

"Thank you, Master Lachance," I said, more to be polite than anything else. I wasn't sure what to say in a situation like this. No etiquette class I ever had, no 'talking to' about good manners ever covered what you say to an assassin when he hands you a knife and tells you kill so and so and you're a shoo-in for the guild'.

"Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again. Soon," he inclined his head, and I returned the gesture.

He vanished, right before my eyes, silently. It was an efficient, and very theatrical use of power – I knew he had something up his sleeve, besides a dagger. But I smirked: being no stranger to spells and spellwork, I saw the telltale distortion that marked his disappearance as a chameleon spell, and not true invisibility. I watched him go. He stopped some ten feet back, and I saw his distortion move, as if he realized that I could still see him.

I raised my empty hand and twiddled my fingers, smiling in a way that infuriated my Guild associates: I still see you.

And then I realized he still had my dagger.

Damn. The little sneak…

But I smiled, nonetheless. Clever – distract me with one weapon and take the other. I wonder if I'll get it back, if Rufio has an…accident? Come to think of it, do I _want_ Rufio to have an accident? Do I care at all?

Hmm. Not really, no. It's none of my business, after all. Glarthir was…a necessity.

Do I care about getting _caught_?

Oh very yes. I have no desire to rot in some prison hole. Or worse – be handed back to my family and placed under house arrest…ugh. Just hang me.

Well, Master Lachance, you've given me a lot to think about, and have _ruined_ a spectacular night's sleep. Thank you, ever so.

But I was still smiling, even as I thought this.

Then it occurred to me that I shouldn't be smiling at all –not because of Glarthir and Andirio, but because Lucien Lachance had me _figured_. Thoroughly.

I sat down hard and looked unflatteringly shocked. I've just been played like harp, and I didn't even _see it coming_! That _bastard_! Play _me_, will he…

I clenched my fists and ground my teeth, letting annoyance push the wine-clouded fog away from my mind, like a drape blocking a fresh breeze in a stuffy room.

Wow, Sari, what are _you_ going to do?

You've gotta _find _him if you wanna to anything to him…and I somehow get the feeling that that isn't going to happen. Not the sort of person to just be wandering around…no. If I ever want to see that smirking face again – regardless whether I want to punch it or not – I'm going to have to kill somebody. And not just _anybody_ –a mark. A target. A contract.

I sighed and ran a hand over my hair. What would my parents say?

Kh.

I frowned and dismissed this question. I don't really care what they say about anything – though anything that causes them discomfort or shame is all right, so long as _I_ can sleep at night. We aren't particularly close –they were and are to this day, too wound up in their own lives and intrigues…I've no siblings. No one.

I bit my lip. This is the part where the average person moralizes.

But my curiosity is piqued.

I have to, on the other hand, admire the subtlety…so why wait until Glarthir was dead? Did they –the faceless, infamous they – think the first was a fluke…? Not that it wasn't…I mean…

I stood up and paced restlessly and found that the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like I had been planning it…but I hadn't. Not really…I looked at the Blade of Woe, slipping it out of its sheath…her. No, the blade was one of those sorts that personifies itself, and in this case was a 'her'.

A companion, a tool, a beautiful and deadly thing…

I broke off a large spray of apple blossoms and considered. Let's see how things look in the morning…things are always better in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: I've taken creative license with magicka, and the effects/casting of spells so that it's a little more in-depth than 'wave your hand and carry on'. Special thanks to the Oblivion Alchemy Wizard, for helping me keep my alchemical mixes accurate, and giving me information from which to infer new ones.

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Two: 'Ill Omen' Indeed

--

Morning came silvery with rain – heavy drizzle that weighted down the mood. I got up and checked my money purse. Well, with the trouble I was leaving behind, just popping into the Mages' Guildhall anywhere I went would be a bad idea – I've already said so once. Fortunately, Glarthir had paid well for the few days of sneak and creep I'd done.

It did not take me long to get my things together, and I immediately returned to the Gold Road and started to make my way towards the Imperial City, as I had intended to do before Lucien Lachance's visit. It was early, and perhaps because of the disturbing encounter the night before, I was eager to get a move on. I didn't feel like I was being watched, but for several miles, I was renewing my detect life spell every so often, just so I knew I wasn't being closely followed.

But just as with the night before, there was no telltale bloom of magenta life force flickering anywhere close by.

Then again, surely a Speaker has better things to do with his time than trail a would-be assassin…no, a _might_-be assassin, to see if they're going to do as they've been instructed. I certainly had no plans at the moment to find the Inn of Ill Omen…what kind of name for an inn is _that_, anyway? Sounds to me like it would discourage business…and how ironic that this Rufio individual should meet his end there…

…_if_ I were to take Lucien up on his offer, of course.

Family, he'd said. And from his tone, it sounded like he believed that was the case. Family – I've never really known what a good one was like, though I'll be the first to admit my 'bad family' isn't nearly as bad as others. In that respect, I'm lucky, and just bitching selfishly. But on the other hand…

I sighed and twitched my braid over my shoulder, toying with the end in a disgruntled way. I certainly _felt_ disgruntled. Bandits beware – I'm having a bad morning. I am _not_ the girl to pick on.

Drat this rain – drizzle will dampen anyone's mood.

--S--

My mood cleared as the day progressed – it was only a few hours walk between Skingrad and the Imperial City, after all – and apart from being a pretty walk, the sun came out midmorning bright and fierce, as if it resented it's temporary imprisonment by the clouds.

It's no great trek, particularly with the Gold Road being patrolled by mounted Imperial Legionnaires. The roads this close the capitol are fairly safe, though if you wander off them too far, you'll run into trouble. Same if you get too far away from the heart of Cyrodiil.

But, I was confident enough in my magicka that a bandit would not pose much trouble to me, so long as I didn't get sneaked up on. That might make things difficult, so with that in mind, I made sure to stay aware of my surroundings.

But the likelihood was that the most dangerous thing on the road would be a bear or something. And bears were nothing compared with people.

To the average passer-by, I probably looked like a nice, normal girl picking flowers by the roadside. Well, I _was _picking flowers, but not for the same reason I'd picked the apple blossoms –which I still had, though they were fading. As an alchemist, I know the value of stocking up while you can – there's no guarantee you'll be able to find the same plants growing by the road further on ahead – so you stock up while you can.

Today, however, I wasn't planning poisons, but restoratives. I still had supplies for making them, my mortar and pestle, a few empty bottles, and a magefire is very useful no matter where you are. I stopped in the Imperial City to do some trade, and to pick up the local gossip. You'd be surprised what people will tell you if they like you.

Or if _think_ they like you. Here's to charm spells.

--S--

There is nowhere quite like the Imperial City. It's a sprawling place, circular in design, sectioned off into districts, like segments in an orange. The best place to shop is – obviously –the Market District.

There was a lovely ring in Red Diamond Jewelry that I would have loved to have gotten: it was a delicate but old fashioned thing, silver, with a red stone. The proprietor saw me looking at it and told me that the stone was supposed to change colors when it was near a poison, and to another color when it was near something like…like skooma. Drugs.

That would be a useful trinket, but it was cost-prohibitive. Well, if I ever make it big, I know where to go. Which brought me to my present problem: alchemy is just _not _the way to make a living these days. Alchemists are a septim a several and there were several already in place. And they were not looking for an apprentice, or a shop girl.

Imperial City is also, unfortunately, not a place for new businesses – you have to have an established consumer base first – or so I gathered. Which meant I needed to find a job. I _could _enter the Fighters' Guild…they've recently had the power structure shift – some half-Nord is in charge now. Big beefy lad, by all accounts.

But I'm not much of a fighter. I'm too small – I hit hardest when my opponent has been paralyzed.

I suppose I could join the Guard…but I run into the same problem, and I've got black marks on my history. They'll hear about what happened to Andirio, I scowled, just thinking about him.

I continued to walk.

Then, on the other hand, there was always Lachance's offer – it would be bloody. It would be illegal, immoral and unethical…but I had to admit, I was curious. I sighed – I didn't even _know_ Rufio. Or…was that supposed to make it easy? Easier.

Well, that was not the point, I think. An assassin probably doesn't know their mark, half the time – more than half: they just know enough to know who to poison, shoot, stab or whatever. Enough to know the difference between 'target' and 'not target', like a hawk stooping.

And really – the 'Inn of Ill-Omen'? What kind of name for a place is _that_? More and more it sounds like a business _deterrent_, if you ask me…I'll bet it's a seedy, derelict little place, too…the kind of place you _expect_ a murder to happen. Was that Lachance's idea of a joke?

Do I know enough about him to know if he has a sense of humor?

No, I don't…but if he does, surely this counts as a joke. I mean, I have to grin slightly in an 'I can't believe this' sort of way every time I think about it.

--S--

I spent two days in the Imperial City, and by then, I still hadn't come to any conclusions except this: if I want to make a living, away from my worthless parents…this isn't going to be the place to do it.

And I'm not desperate enough to become a gladiator in the arena. I'll get my head handed back to me by the first opponent, as I can't charm them and then kill them. That wouldn't be…well, I'd have to get close enough to charm them first, since charm spells require close range…they'd be pretty useless.

Sigh.

--S--

After a few pleasant inquiries I learned that the Inn of Ill-Omen _was _a seedy little place – the Faergyl to the north was better in terms of service, food, and upkeep, I was told, though I was better off staying here in the Imperial City, if I was looking for lodging – but Inn Ill-Omen was cheaper, even if the ambiance wasn't very sophisticated or cultured. The impression I got was that it had very little business, except for the legionnaires stopping in for a bite and a drink before carrying on with their rounds, possibly even stopping for the night when the situation warranted.

Which meant that it was and was not a great place for a murder, both at the same time. Not that I was planning anything, the paradox just struck me as being somewhat…interesting.

--S--

The Inn was supposed to be located along the Green Road, north of Bravil – just as Lucien Lachance had said it would be. He practically drew me a map with those instructions, because those were the same instructions I got elsewhere. Bravil isn't the most prosperous of places, so perhaps my potions might sell better? It's a valid thought…though being less prosperous, it might just mean the market is more closed, as people have less to spend on such…frivolities.

Keep telling yourself that, Sari.

Even if I don't do well in Bravil, Leyawiin is there…ugh. It's going to be a long walk. I'll need to find something to ward off mosquitoes – Leyawiin is thick with them – mosquito clouds are practically part of the weather down there. I hate hot and sticky climate…

In this I am a mage, good and proper: I don't like extremes of temperature.

And I complain too much.

--S--

It _was_ a long walk and it _rained_ – though I was enough of a mage to cast a spell to keep the water off of me, and to keep my feet dry. Amazing the uses you find for a good waterwalking spell – particularly the variant we learned in Anvil, which keeps your shoes dry, too. Few things are as bad as wet shoes.

Even though it was only spring, the air grew hot and heavy, the further south I went. I tell you – I have no desire to _live_ in Bravil or Leyawiin – it would be like living in a swamp. All hot and sticky…and that's on a 'cool' day, according to the locals.

Fortunately for _me_, I didn't get too far into Bravil territory. I didn't even get to the city itself, much less to Leyawiin.

--S--

The Inn of Ill-Omen was _the_ most depressing place I had ever seen – not that that was saying much. Better I should have said 'it was the most depressing place I could ever imagine', and I could imagine more than a little bit.

In fact, it looked almost empty, and the colorful curse that greeted my entrance indicated the inn was only just scraping by.

"Well I'll be a white snow bear…a customer!" the innkeeper blinked as I smiled and wiped my shoes on the mat. I'm probably one of the few who do, but I was feeling miserable from the weather, and more miserable because I was _here_.

Lucien Lachance is an evil bastard, and if I ever see him again, I'm going to singe his floppy black robes. I _do_ hope the poor dear wears something under them, or he's going to have a very long walk home.

Never mind that my life expectancy would drop drastically if I were to attempt it. You know how it is: we _all_ get good and riled up in our heads and make nasty comments to people we're sure we don't like. And right now, I didn't like Lucien, and I didn't like myself for letting him not only get to me, but manipulate me as well.

Because I was here, at the Inn of Ill-Omen on a fact-finding mission.

Dammit.

Dammit more was that the innkeeper was determined to put on a good show so I'd stick around, especially as I looked like I might spend a few septims. And a few was all I had left, unfortunately. "We got plenty of rooms if you want one. Ain't nobody staying here these days 'cept for old Rufio," the innkeeper said gregariously.

I smiled. So trusting…so naive. "Well, it's getting late…and it's still quite a walk yet..." I made a show of chewing on my finger and then forked over the septims that would buy a night here. "Who's Rufio?" I asked sweetly as I ordered a goblet of wine 'to take the edge of my trip'. I sipped it, but didn't intend to drink it all. Not just yet, anyway.

"No one you'd be interested in, lass," the innkeeper winked at me and I coyly smiled and lowered my eyes, as if caught trolling for a man. Here's to good acting. "He's an old codger. Been living here for a couple weeks now. If you ask me, he's hiding from something. But what do I care? He pays his tab," the innkeeper shrugged.

Well, as he was feeling chatty, an attentive look was all I really needed. I let him get on with it.

"His room is downstairs, in what I like to call the 'private quarters'…of course, the room at the end of the hall's got a lovely view, if the lady would like," he added.

I smiled, the man did know how to run a business. I suppose if he didn't, we wouldn't be having this chat, but still, I had to approve his tactics. As there were no other patrons, I had my pick of rooms. There are benefits to staying in empty, unpopular places, I suppose.

I smiled into my wine and then got to my feet after a few more minutes of pleasant small talk.

--S--

Up in my bedroom I wiped off my smile and sat down at the table for a serious think. The muscles in my face ached a little – I'm not one to smile for no reason in particular, so my face wasn't used to holding such an overly pleasant expression.

My contemplation of my options had lasted a good long while, before arriving and now, and now I was sure that this was the time to make a choice, so I considered all of my options as I sipped my wine. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad either.

I _could_ go home to mother and father…but as soon as I thought of it I dismissed it out of hand. With my luck they'd either marry me off – and I'd be forced to run away again – or they might just find other ways to make life miserable. Or send me back to the Guild.

Just because I'm considering all possibilities doesn't mean they're all good possibilities, or even to be taken seriously. No, I'm grown –it's time to be out on my own. Not with the Guild. And _not_ with my parents.

I sighed and then concentrated briefly and mouthed the words that let me detect life-forces. The spell made my lips tingle slightly – magicka usually has some effects on the caster. Sometimes I think that other casters can sense magicka…but other times I'm, not so sure. I never asked at the Guild, so I guess I'll never really know.

The spell was weak and I didn't pick anything up. I concentrated and watched Manheim –the proprietor – show up as a dancing column of pink light. I cast a chameleon spell upon myself – because detect life gives the eyes a misty magenta flicker or sheen, the same color lifeforces show up in, and I didn't want anyone to know I was scouting.

I got up and walked out to the staircase overlooking the common room. He'd said there was a set of suites downstairs – the private rooms. So I'm looking for a closet, or a hatch or something…

I didn't go into the common room – chameleon wouldn't hide me from watchful eyes, and I'm sure Manheim has eyes like a hawk – he'd have to, with so few customers. And I didn't want to be caught lurking about – that would look suspicious. And I had already gone to some length to cultivate a 'good girl' image.

It would be such a shame to waste it.

--S--

The next day I stepped out around mid-afternoon, my mind bent upon finding Rufio – I knew he was _here_ just not _where_, exactly. I still wasn't sure I was going to do anything about him…but I was curious. I needed to have a look around.

And to have a good, long, uninterrupted look around, I needed Manheim asleep. Or too groggy to remember that I had ever left his sight – and I couldn't just ask, lest anything ever come back to me. I was going to employ Manheim as my alibi, so it was imperative that he continue to believe I was just an herbalist in transit between somewhere and nowhere – which was what I basically told him, and which was basically true. From a certain point of view. Half-truths are harder to detect than outright lies.

As this was the case, I was going to put Manheim to sleep _after_ I had apparently gone to bed. Give time to let the drug work, and sneak back down, cloaked in a low-level chameleon spell – I got the idea from Lanchance himself. If no one was looking for me, it didn't matter how low-level it was.

The point was that no one would actually _see_ me. And that was where the skill came in.

The draught I intended to somehow slip to Manheim was a simple one – one I use on myself when I get stressed: a concoction of motherwort leaves, water-hyacinth nectar (which I'd acquired in the Imperial City –those things don't grow just anywhere, you know), and my own addition of chamomile and valerian. I usually make a tea with it.

The only problem with this stuff is that it _tastes_, and I don't have the equipment to remove the flavor. So whatever drink or food I slip it into, it needs to be strongly flavored. I prepared the draught up in my room at the inn and once it was ready I looked at it, in its glass bottle, innocuous as the bowl of apples by my bed.

I looked out the window into the gathering gloom.

How will you know if I've killed Rufio, Lachance?

I scowled. It means I'm being watched. How long will you watch…before you give up on me?

Or are you so sure that I'll do it, that you don't mind taking the time out from whatever it is a Speaker _does_ when not stalking beautiful girls, trying to recruit them into the cause?

This last made me snicker softly. I doubted I'd get a straight answer from Lachance, even if I'd posed the questions. But at least I was amused, if nothing else.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes:

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Three: Rufio

--

Getting the sleeping draught into Manheim was easier than I ever expected it would be: we had another couple of guests stop in for a drink, one of the Imperial Legionnaire patrols – and while they had him distracted I discretely slipped the liquid into his ale. Strong stuff, that ale, I could smell it from where I was sitting, over my own supper: and it was unpleasant.

Then the guards noticed me.

I smiled, I flirted a little with the guards…and finally announced that I was going to bed early, after having sat chatting for some half hour after supper, at which point the guards realized they really did have places to be, and excused themselves, clattering out of the Inn. I walked up the stairs and turned into my bedroom. I waited a little and cast a chameleon spell over myself and slipped down the stairs, closing my bedroom door securely.

I had a little bit of sleeping draught for myself ready, on the bedside table – so it would look like I had been using it.

With any luck, they'd have a little trouble waking me up later. That depends on how long I have between the time I quaff it down, and the time they actually come check to see if I'm all right.

Manheim was snoozing against the bar, one hand wrapped around his now empty tankard, the other under his chin, propping his head at a funny angle. He'll be like that for a while, and I felt a sort of dispassionate calm settle over me. More time than I need.

I looked around the main room and cast a detect life spell, scowling. I had yet to look very closely for the hatch or door that would lead down to the private quarters – but in an inn this size, I wasn't worried.

If Manheim had let the existence of those chambers slip in casual conversation with a complete stranger, then there was no way the entry was going to be extremely well-concealed. I probably wasn't looking in the right place. My first guess would have been behind the bar, but this yielded no success at first.

I looked down in irritation and blinked: there was the faintest flicker of light…beneath the floor. Right where Rufio ought to be…but how to get there?

The flickering life was holding still – so Rufio was probably sound asleep. Good for me, bad for him…How to get down there? It looks like it might have been a wine cellar once – in better days. I suppose in case of a disaster that doesn't involve flooding, it would be a very safe place to go.

There was a trap door I hadn't seen earlier, screened from view and cleverly installed just behind the stairs. I could see it now, form where I stood behind the bar. I smiled – bingo.

I opened it carefully, so as not to let it creak – even if Manheim was asleep, I was taking no chances that Rufio hadn't settled down - and dropped down into the basement. It was like another level of the inn – with rooms for rent, I mean. The life-sign was coming from the end of the narrow hall, past two rooms that were clearly being used for storage purposes.

I checked the door handle gently – locked.

Unsurprising.

It also posed a bit of a problem…except that it was a cheap lock. Possibly the cheapest I had ever seen in my life. Living at a Mages Guild Guildhall for several years, you pick up a lot of little things, cantrips mostly, even if you're not well-liked. It's a place where magicka seems to rub off of one person and onto another almost arbitrarily.

I stuck my finger in to the lock and pulled it out, and repeated the process until I found the finger that fit most comfortably, then I addressed the lock. The words for the spell translate to 'Open, lock', but are hard to use in conversation – hence why mages use a shorthand when writing about spells - the spell was in the words, and I could taste the magicka that I exhaled. I turned my finger like a key and the door clicked open.

I stood up, and tiptoed in.

Rufio had a ravaged face, and the build of someone who had lost a lot of weight and muscle mass in a very short span of time – the couple of weeks Manheim had mentioned - though he looked pretty tough. Tough enough that I didn't want him awake and trying to fight me off. He'd win, hands down. Best if I avoid an actual confrontation.

His sleep was troubled – in the grips of a nightmare and his murmurs were enough to convince me that even if I had had reservations about who he was, I would not have been wrong when I suspected him to be the mark I was supposed to kill.

He was aging, but there was something hardened and feral about his face, something I immediately didn't like.

He was having nightmare about the Brotherhood…about men and women in black robes and hoods, with cruel knives and the cold kiss of death. Even in his sleep, he struggled to justify himself to an implacable force. I looked at him and found that my hand had moved automatically to the Blade of Woe at my hip.

I had coated her blade liberally with a low-level poison – the best I had at the moment. Doing Glarthir in had taken most of my best, and contact poison is no good for coating a weapon, because it comes in a powder when properly prepared.

A girl could never be too careful…that was what I told myself when poisoning the blade, when strapping it to my hip, but as my fingers found the chill hilt of the blade, I wondered who I was kidding. It felt far too comfortable resting against my hip.

This was it…this was where I either proved that I was only here for academic reasons…or I'd take Lachance up on his offer. My resentment towards him had cooled in the face of my puzzling, plotting, and pondering. I was sure it would flare up again later, but for now, he might as well be a million leagues away, not here right now. I was all alone, with a choice, in the basement of a badly-frequented dive of an inn.

Family. Belonging.

Conscience. Murder.

Lots of those, I wager. I stood there for what seemed to me like a long time and looked at the ravaged face, which even in sleep bore marks of cruelty. I looked up sharply towards the ceiling at a 'thunk' and felt a thrill of horror, my mouth opened but no sound came out – I stifled that very quickly so as not to wake Rufio. All that happened was that I took a very deep and totally silent breath.

There was a lifeforce moving around, where there should have been only stillness.

Either Manheim had woken up or been woken…another life came stomping in – I could hear them overhead.

Damn – the patrol's back. They'll have wakened Manheim, and he'll notice the trapdoor is open.

This just got complicated. I _knew_ I should have waited longer! Or at least closed the hatch.

I turned and walked up to Rufio, who flipped onto his belly, curling up as if he could protect himself. I unsheathed the Blade of Woe and looked around. I grabbed the extra blanket from the foot of his bed and held it so that it would catch the blood spray from any attack I made. I would have no time to clean up. One drop of blood on me and I was done for.

The Blade of Woe sank into the place where skull and neck joined. Blood soaked the blanket I was holding there and Rufio died silently. He never realized the danger. He didn't have time to scream, to shout, or even to take breath. I pulled the blade free and cast the blanket away, and pulled my chameleon spell back into place, and stepped briskly away from the scene, trying to ignore the thick metallic smell of blood.

Manheim would never get it out of the sheets, the bedding.

I made it into the hall to see Manheim appearing, talking loudly, worriedly, to the Legionnaires – no doubt he saw the trapdoor open, when before it had been closed…I _knew_ I should have closed it. My own fool mistakes are about to come and bite me…

This so sloppy…

My heart actually stopped when I saw Manheim climbing down the ladder to get to the private suites, but my mind, fortunately, did not.

I instinctively flattened myself against the wall and he hurried forward, followed by the two guards. I darted past them, close enough to invisible to remain unnoticed and scrambled up the ladder and raced back to my room. I undressed at record speed, pulled my nightgown on and balled the clothes into my bag – the blanket had shielded them from the blood. The Blade of Woe was swiftly shoved between mattress and bedframe.

I gulped the sedative and threw myself into the bed, tossing and turning violently for a few minutes so it looked slept in, my hair frizzing.

I was too keyed up for the potion to work properly at first, but when there came a pounding at my door –then the sounds of it being unlocked by the innkeeper's master key I manage d a groggy 'huh?' as light sprayed into the room.

Heavy eyelids, leaden limbs, but my mind was still moving faster than a winning horse on race day – or trying to.

"Are you all right miss?" Manheim demanded, his words a little slurred from my sleeping draught in his ale and my drugged state of mind.

"Huh...why…" I sat up, rubbing my eyes, not needing to feign the grogginess associated with deep sleep interrupted. My fingers felt funny, clumsy and stupid.

I could almost feel cold eyes and a satisfied smirk at my back, but I ignored the impression. What did I say about ill feeling towards Lachance flaring up again at a later date?

"Miss, are you all right?" Manheim was asking again.

I blinked trying to fight the effects of the sleeping draught. "I…just tired…my potion," I motioned with one stupid, almost nerveless hand towards the bottle on my bedside table. Manheim's voice became a drone. "I'm fine…really…" I slurred and got unsteadily up, and pulled on my dressing gown, and Manheim helped me down to the common room. The legionnaires were not present, I could only assume they were downstairs. My detect life spell had worn off.

"What happened?" I blinked owlishly.

Manheim began to explain that there was trouble –though I was sure he was more worried about not renting another room, ever again, once news that there had been a murder on the premises got out. I was dozing quite genuinely when I heard the low, terse sounds of an argument being kept quiet. I could tell that it had been more than a doze – I had fallen forward against the bar, with my head on my arms, and was stiff from having been half-on and half-off my stool. I shifted, and my muscles protested.

"I tell you, there's a crazy killer on the loose! _She_ couldn't have done it – look at her! Her own stuff's too strong!" Manheim was saying as I finally sat up straight and stretched as much as I could without causing too much attention to be diverted to me. "I never saw her leave her room –and that concoction you found by her bed? It's a sedative! She'd have been dead to the world!"

"Aye and someone used it on you, too – remember?" one of the legionnaires asked, looking past Manheim at me.

I slipped off the stool and gained my feet. My head was starting to clear – for which I was grateful. What I really wanted were my slippers, but then, you can't have everything.

"Well, look where she had it!" Manheim argued, looking at me for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Sweet little thing that she is – it'd have been a…" Manheim stopped and blanched. "We could be…we're talking the _Dark Brotherhood _here…" he hissed, and the conversation dropped a few notes as the three men argued, occasionally casting glances my way.

"Hey! No one's said that yet," snapped one of the legionnaires, the younger, looking extremely nervous. I could almost see it on his face 'Oh please, not them'.

"And I tell you, I didn't tell a _soul_ that he was down there! And she didn't ask even once about other patrons!" Manheim said heatedly.

I tried not to blink and give him bug-eyes – had he forgotten mentioning it? It looked that way. Something he hadn't thought important enough to remember having said…that was a stroke of luck I was having trouble believing. And for a moment, a cold thrill ran through me, and suspicion took over: did he know? Was he planning to blackmail me later?

It continued like this for some time. I was quite content to let the men argue. I drifted off again, and only realized it when I was being gently shaken awake. "Miss?" Manheim asked gently.

"Missy," this was from one of the guards, and I opened a baleful and bleary eye to glare at him. I detest being called 'missy'.

"Miss, wake up…" Manheim was saying again, "wakey-wakey…"

"Huh?" I asked feebly and blinked dazedly, this time from genuine tiredness. It had been a long day, and a very stressful evening. But so far, I'd played it very cool, mostly by keeping my trap shut.

I was helped back to my room, with a bungled, garbled explanation that I should get some rest.

"Yes…rest..." I agreed dumbly. "What…what's happening?" I asked. "Did they…have they found…?"

"Nothing to worry over," Manheim understood the question to mean what had happened with regards to the guards.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked as sweetly, innocently as I could, giving Manheim the biggest green-eyed innocent routine I had ever used.

"No, lass, no," he assured me warmly, and ushered me into my room and locked it behind me, exactly as it had been when I settled down to rest in the first place.

I collapsed on my bed. No, I don't think he does know, or even suspect. I smiled and stretched luxuriously on the rough sheets and pulled the blanket around me –dressing gown still on and all, smiling into my pillow.

I'll sort it out in the morning- I need to work on my follow through…

And so began the dissection: I should have waited until later in the evening. Never mind that I'd gotten out all right –they hadn't been looking for the telltale ripple of a person under a chameleon spell. And there will _always _be a ripple: chameleon is not invisibility, though both belong to the…

Damn. I'm rattling off like I used to do at the Guild. I hate it when I do that.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: I try to keep the dialog running smooth. If a character looks 'flat', that's because she don't know enough to infer anything about him/her.

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Four: Induction

--

I was dismissed by the Imperial Legionnaires by midday, and they were even kind enough to walk me to the Faergyl Inn, where I intended to stay for the day, insisting I was too shaken from last night to travel further, and couldn't possibly ask them to escort me all the way to the Imperial City. I had a few harrowing moments when I thought they might just do that, then I was dropped off and on my own again.

There was no way Lucien would considerer a place crawling with Legionnaires 'secure'.

Well, I sat moodily in my bedroom. The Faergyl inn had apple trees out back, nearest my window, and I had the window open to catch the scent. It was not as thick as several nights ago...but the memory and the smell touched something deep within me…a little darkness, perhaps, being drawn out by the dark memory attached to the apple blossoms.

We'll see how well Master Lachance keeps his word – I'm interested. I'm also running low on prospects for employment…and I'm curious. I don't think I'll ever go back to Anvil, in any case…I've already ruled out Bravil and Leyawiin…oh _no_…what if he represents the Anvil branch of…can you call the Dark Brotherhood a Guild?

No, no I don't think anyone would be idiot enough to leave an Anvil native and a killer in her home town. That would be asking for trouble. Speaking of trouble…I pulled the Blade of Woe out of my backpack. It was to my surprise, I had discovered earlier, that she shed bloodlike water, it hadn't stuck, which made cleaning her a little redundant, really. But I liked the feel of the slippery-smooth blade under the cloth I was using.

Which leads me to what I'm expecting.

_If_ this is not some elaborate joke – and it's very poor taste if it is – then I can count on being interrupted while I sleep. So no sexy pajamas, no sleeping in just my underwear. That's giving someone else more power than I want them to have – so I sleep in my rumpled, crumpled nightgown, or I jury rig something.

Magicka in my fingertips and I can't do a thing about rumpled clothing except wash it, and dry it.

I looked about the room. The lock was about as cheap as the ones at the Inn of Ill-Omen – he could very easily spell it open, or even _pick_ the damn thing without much trouble. It's a little clichéd to come in via the window. I would be very disappointed if Lucien turns out to be a walking cliché.

I looked out the window at the waving flowers and stood up, reached out, and broke a branch off and set them on the table.

I love apple blossoms –they're so delicate…so lovely…pure. Innocent, even.

But the smell is so sweet it can choke you…seem like poison.

This was about when it struck me that there was no agreement to be made: I found myself realizing, belatedly even worse, that Rufio's death might just be the actual 'I'm in', and not just a sign of good faith. Oh damn…and yet…hm.

One word about sloppiness, and someone's losing teeth.

Yeah, Sari –get mad. That'll help…

Note to self: do _not_ display temper to the Speaker…I don't think he'll like it, and he's not likely to put up with it either.

I did not go to sleep that night – I lay dozing, the Blade of Woe under my pillow. I didn't bother trying to trap the door – after all, it was not only a rude way to greet a guest, I couldn't claim 'unexpected visitor' as an excuse. So I pretended to sleep, forcing myself to relax, slipping into the semi-meditative state that usually preceded a very long and complex spelling.

--S--

"You've very soft footsteps – the floorboard outside the door didn't even creak," I said blandly from where I still lay, some hours later. I was a little surprised, even if I tried not to show it: I had noticed the creak upon entering the room the first time and if it creaked under _my _weight…he should have made just as much noise, unless he _knows _where that squeaky, treacherous board _is, _and simply avoided it.

And for the record, I didn't actually hear his footfall – I heard the glass vial I had left by the door rolling across the floor when the door opened. I had suspected that I wouldn't get much warning otherwise.

"Indeed."

I smiled slightly and opened my eyes, sitting up. "Tell me – were you going to wake me up, or had you planned to wait there all night?" It had been some five minutes since the door had closed, and I was honestly curious, smirking in the darkness.

"Why did I need to wake you, as you were so obviously expecting me?" Lucien responded politely.

I smiled and waved a hand, a red light appearing by my shoulder, throwing the room into red and black shadows, that would not hurt our eyes, or ruin Lucien's already established night vision. Red light is good, blue lights – while pretty – are _bad_.

I slipped off the bed to stand barefoot on the floor, the Blade of Woe loose but sheathed in my hand. "Of course. Please – sit," I waved to the little table and chairs by the window before seating myself and pushing the shutter open to let moonlight fall into the room, rendering the spell-light by my shoulder useless, so I let it darken to nothing.

I looked up – it was an incredibly subtle use of power – which I find preferable to the gaudier shows. Gaudy shows are the sign of someone who needs to show off in order to be noticed. I prefer the subtler, more demanding style, that you only notice _because_ it's so subtle. Not that I'm a great mage, mind you. I simply know where to put a low-level spell. And when to use a flashy one to set someone off their guard.

Lucien took the chair across from me and then pulled his hood back, as if this were a social call, rather than business. I had expected short-cropped hair, but was surprised to find it was long, and pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck. Also, without the hood his features looked sharper, more angular, though the impression of shrewd intelligence remained.

"Rufio lies dead. Well done. The family will now welcome you with open arms. Know this," he began quietly, as the window was open.

I reached up and there was a shimmer of magicka as I drew a hand across the window, a barrier of silence. I would have to give him half my attention to keep it up, but it rendered the need to keep voices down almost unnecessary. Low-level spell, cleverly used. "Every Dark Brother and Dark Sister is a child of Sithis. He whom we call Sithis has many other names. Chaos. Doom. Discord. Sithis is the Void," Lucien's dark eyes held mine, and I returned his gaze with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

It was not easy.

I've done this too, to get a measure of a person. We're both waiting to see who looks away first. It's a good way to divine mettle, but only if the other person doesn't want to give a false result, but purposely looking away. Personally, and because this isn't an out-loud conversation I'm not afraid to admit, I found him a little intimidating, and not half so irritating. But me being me, I would rather die than let him know it. Again, I don't like giving other people power over me, and fear or intimidation is power.

And this – I mean it as a compliment –sneaky son of a bitch probably knows it.

See? Big _fat_ compliment.

"We of the Dark Brotherhood in actuality serve our lady, the Night Mother, the bride of Sithis. The Night Mother rules her children with a terrible Black Hand," he smiled here as if at an inner joke, and I could hear that the words 'Black Hand' were capitalized. It was odd - usually people who spout this sort of thing are zealots of the worst sort, and yet, I still didn't get that impression from Lucien, which intrigued me. How many people can say something like that and _not _sound like zealots or idiot-idealists?

"Black Hand," I repeated, "You make it sound like a title."

"It is, and more," Lucien said nodding approvingly, though what he was approving I was not entirely sure. "The Black Hand is the ruling body of the Dark Brotherhood. It is made up of one Listener and Four Speakers. Four fingers and a thumb, if you will," he held up one gloved hand, and I noticed that even with gloves on he had beautiful hands – long fingered, and elegant. The sort of hands you'd expect to find on a musical instrument, or around a paintbrush, not the hilt of a knife.

Life's odd that way, isn't it?

"As a member of the Dark Brotherhood, you must abide by the Five Tenets. They are the laws that guide and protect us…break one and you will find yourself…in considerable trouble," he said delicately.

"So. what are these Tenants? Just so I know?" my spell guttered unexpectedly but did not break. I saw Lucien's eyes flicker to the window and I realized he was watching how long I maintained the spell. In fact…he _might_ even be pushing against it, just to see what happened.

Hmm…he's got an interesting way to sound people out…how do you counter something like that? I didn't smile, but I wanted to. I'm being tested – but for what? Surely not aptitude, I thought I had already proved my skills were passable, at the very least.

There – I can feel whatever spell he's using pressing up against mine. Subtle. Very subtle.

"The Five Tenets are very simple, and as follows," he cleared his throat slightly and I _felt_ the spell I was holding buckle. He _was_ trying to subtly crack it, like tapping a knife-back to a crystal goblet at dinner…finding out how hard you have to hit before the crystal cracks.

"If you want me to drop the spell, perhaps you should ask," I said simply, long before it became a strain to hold the spell.

"Oh? I was under the impression you wished to hear about the Tenants," he said blandly, as if he had missed something, but I wasn't fooled.

"I was under the impression you wanted to knock my spell out of the window," I answered back.

"Hmm. Really?"

I took a sharp gasp and nearly lost the spell – he's not much more of a mage than me…he just knows how to counterspell me. We wrestled over the spell silently until I finally lost it and leaned forward slightly, breathing a little harder than I should have been, for having been sitting still, sweat beading damp upon my brow. I wanted to call him an ass, but somehow it didn't seem like a good idea...though it made me smile.

What made me smile more was that he, too, bore the signs that he'd been having to exert himself to win this little magical bout.

"Well...you proved why you're in charge…I thought this was in induction meeting…not a 'see what a big, bad boy I am' meeting…" I said, trying to keep the slight pant of suddenly-relieved exertion out of my tone. I twitched my fingers and felt a tingle of magicka in them – I wasn't drained, but I was getting there. I wouldn't even be able to light a candle for several moments, let alone do anything else.

"Your sense of humor should serve you well, provided you know where to use it, and when," Lucien responded, though I did not feel as if I had been corrected.

Quite the contrary: I had formed the opinion that my attempt to impress with subtle shows had been taken as a challenge for him to see what I can do. Someone's competitive, even if he's subtle about it. You know, I like him better when I'm sober.

"Where was I? Ah yes," I had no thoughts that he had actually forgotten his place. Rather, he had marked his place in the conversation like marking his place in a book with a finger, to return to the line at first convenience. "The Tenants are as follow," he repeated, "Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. We are Family. And Family must be honored."

"The Wrath of Sithis..." again with the capital letters in weird places. I felt a slight chill, though, as if something ominous had seeped into the room at the mention of this…Wrath of Sithis.

"I appreciate your curiosity, but it is one thing that there are no words for. Suffice to say that most who invite the Wrath of Sithis pay for their transgressions…with their lives. Best you learn from their indiscretions," Lucien said conversationally.

"I'll bet. And this…Night Mother?" I was curious – I also am in the habit of wishing to be well-versed in a topic if I need to make conversation about it, even when I have every intention of feigning foolishness, or ignorance. That way, I can spot people who are lying to me easier. "Who is she?"

Lucien's mouth twitched slightly, and he considered carefully his words. "We praise our Unholy Matron. From her shadowed womb we were born, from her breast we suckle malice and pain. She loves her children, you see," he smiled ever so slightly here, a rather chilling sight, partly because the smile was so cold, partly because there was a sort of shimmer of devotion in his eyes.

I shivered and swallowed, trying not to be too obvious about how unsettled I felt.

"All of her children…and those ranks now include you, dear Sister," Lucien concluded in a more normal tone.

I felt something funny take hold of me. It was not attraction, or even the naïve leaping heart of hearing a gentle, almost caressing tone used by an attractive man…it was like having something slip into place. Like a tether, or a leash on a wolf…only I was the wolf, and the leash extended to an invisible hand…and not Lucien's.

No, not invisible…a Black Hand…belonging to the Night Mother…this is getting interesting.

"Tell me Sarielle…the foolish mage…"

"_That _was an accident…though I did _not _lament his death. He was a fool and a pig," I said coldly, a little startled by the question.

"We did wonder, you know. It was…very convenient," Lucien said, as if I hadn't snapped at all, but had answered mildly.

"And sloppy," I sighed.

Lucien chuckled. "The first few usually are. I worry little for your…improvement."

I looked up. Well, that was a hell of a vote of confidence, and made me a little nervous.

"We kill for profit, for enjoyment, and for the glory of the Dread Father, Sithis. We are family, with bonds forged in blood and death and darkness," came the calm statement that answered my unspoken question of 'what have I _really_ gotten into, here?'.

Was I supposed to pledge my allegiance to Sithis, here? Or the Night Mother…

Lucien chuckled. "You need say nothing as yet – you will have time to consider, time to learn. You will find that for…how are we usually portrayed?" he looked off to one side as if looking for a sentence to pluck from the air at random.

"Black-hearted, cold-blooded mindless killers without a shred of decency or morality?" I asked, contriving to sound a little bored.

"Some such things, I'm sure," though I got the feeling that he knew very well what _everyone_ said about the Brotherhood. "I think that you will find we are quite a close-knit family. Now heed these words. The slaying of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. Rufio's blood, the ink," Lucien said and I felt that odd sense of being tied into something again, but I was equally sure this was no magicka-fueled spell.

"Then I should have signed a little more neatly, wouldn't you say?" I asked idly, or rather, with feigned idleness.

Lucien didn't answer this, but I think he rather expected me to say something here. "As a Speaker of the Black Hand, I directly oversee a particular group of family members. You will join that group, and fulfill any contracts given. In the city of Cheydinhal, there is the abandoned house near the eastern wall, set back a way from the Chapel of Arkay. Enter the basement, and attempt to open the black door you will find there. You will be asked a question. Answer thusly: "Sanguine, my Brother," and you will be granted entry to the Sanctuary – your new home. Once inside, speak with Ocheeva, the Sanctuary...well, she calls herself the Sanctuary Mistress, so I suppose that will suffice. She'll take care of you."

Thank goodness, not Anvil, Leyawiin or Bravil. And crap, but I'm going to be treated like a kid until we get a new member. I hate being treated like a child.

Lucien rose and so did I. He reached over and rested a hand on one of my shoulders. His smile, though, was a shade less carefully crafted, and a little more genuine – but not totally. "We must now take our leave of each other, you and I, for there is much work to be done. I shall be following your progress. Welcome to the family, Sarielle," he turned on his heel and left, and I felt the chill of the room, to which I had become accustomed, suddenly recede. He'd been spelling the room cold and I hadn't even realized it…damn…no wonder he'd been showing signs of strain, he was running two spells at once!

Grr. So much for making a good impression.

I moved out of my room to watch the road and saw him ride out of sight, on a rather predictably black horse.

Cheydinhal. I'd been there once, when seeking entry to the Arcane University –to get me out of Anvil, you understand. The ranking mage there, Falcar, had proved to be such a spectacular and very creepy idiot that I had gone home promptly. I knew where the Chapel was, because of this one visit – though I was sure finding the house mentioned would take a little doing.

If nothing else, I've come to believe Lucien gives good directions.

And getting in unseen might be a test in and of itself. I was excited, and it took a lot of willpower not to run off all crazy-like to Cheydinhal right now.

I couldn't sleep, I had too much to think about. This…Sithis – I'd never heard of him. The Night Mother…the thought gave me an odd pricking sensation up and down my spine. Family…well, anything is better than my family…though I'll be the first to admit again that my idea of 'bad family' is nowhere near the worst out there, and is a rather selfish observation.

But if you don't plan to love your kid, look after them…why bother having her in the first place? I ask you.

Petulant. That's a good word.

Ask for Ocheeva…not an Imperial or a Breton name…then again, that doesn't mean much.

I got up and began to pace, thinking to myself. I decided after several lengths in silent contemplation and review of the meeting, that I was not upset that all my games and subtleties had been turned over – I would have been disappointed, I think, if they had. After all, if I can outdo a Speaker of the Hand…that sounds like a problem, to me.

Which made me wonder, with narrowed eyes: if he was _that _observant…did he know what I was doing, and why? And so, come to that, didn't it sound more likely that he had only put himself out far enough to prove that I was tangling with someone more skilled than I was? But not too much, so as not send me spiraling into an 'it's no use, I'll never…' mood?

I smiled thinly, then broader. Brilliant…absolutely brilliant…


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: I have taken creative license with the Sanctuary, so it is somewhat different/larger than it is in the game.

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Five: Cheydinhal

--

Cheydinhal is north and east of the Imperial City – almost the same distance from it as Skingrad is, but in a different direction. It is also a _beautiful_ city – did I mention that before? The buildings look like big doll-houses, white and trimmed in decorative woodwork painted pretty colors –the most popular being purple.

The house that Lucien had told me how to find _would _have been just the same...except it was dilapidated, set very close to the outer wall, as if it were cringing from the city itself, huddling away from 'nice' and 'normal' people. The house was and surrounded by a wild tangle of what had once been a garden, which was marvelously alive and seemed to be trying to swallow the house whole. Roses and other thorny bushes ran rampant, sending feelers and creepers up across the roof. The front door and the windows were boarded up, and overlaid with a riot of ivy, like clutching fingers. It was and was not rather picturesque.

It was hard to imagine an assassin's guildhall in this building: it lacked truly malevolent aura and looked rather like it was losing a fight with nature. I mean, whoever heard of the assassin's guildhall covered in roses and brambleberries?

Bet the place smells nice when they're in bloom…and I know a great recipe for brambleberry pie.

I didn't actually go near the house at first. I simply stood on the steps of the chapel like a wide-eyed girl visiting Cheydinhal for the first time. The patrols of the city watch didn't pass too close to the house…in fact they seemed to ignore it pretty well. Didn't even look in its direction

I looked at it and then ducked behind the temple and cast a chameleon spell over myself and slipped over to the house, careful not to attract attention. I don't think it would make a good impression on my new colleagues…Lucien had deliberately used the term family repeatedly as if hammering an idea into place…and I didn't want my entrance into my new home to be marred with the unwanted questions that inevitably come with approaching a derelict house that no one wants to acknowledge.

Unless they're sufficiently motivated to not notice people coming and going either - but I won't leave that to chance. With my luck like it's been it would not be prudent.

The entrance to use was not the front door, but a window near the boarded and rose-covered back door. The window in question was rusted ajar, hidden from view of the chapel, and the main part of the city. It was so obviously the entryway I was looking for that I felt no trouble in slipping through it.

It satisfied something, some concept of an assassin's lair front door – I mean, anyone can walk in a front door…but _we _use the back _window. _Looking closer the window had been ensorcelled: it was as big as it's real-life shape…but when someone bigger tried to get in, it would magically expand to accommodate them. Clever…and that spell is worked into the very house itself. It was meant to last for a long, long time.

I looked around – here was an evidence of age. It had been empty for a very, very long time, if it had ever been occupied at all – and most of the interior doors were boarded up, shepherding the intruder towards the yawning maw of the doorless basement. The whole place was filled with alternating bars of shadow, and green or gold light –depending on how full the window was of foliage. I carefully moved down the stairs, calling a red magelight as soon as I felt safe in doing so, that I might not fall and break my neck.

What a way to make an entrance. 'Oh yes, we had a new assassin coming in, but she fell down the stairs. Killed herself by not paying attention – maybe it's for the best.' No, I don't think so.

It was cool and dusty, musty-smelling in the basement. The air didn't move, and it hung thick, and seemed to get thicker as I went. There was almost a path from the bottom of the stairs into the darkest corner of the basement, and all junk and debris you would expect to find in an abandoned house and been moved aside.

I looked and raised my light, forcing it to expand, the light to intensify, giving me a great view of the room and all its contents.

The door Lucien had said to find was set as far away from the stairwell leading up as possible. The wall in the corner had been broken apart, stones pulled out to form a very crude sort of entryway, that indicated to me at least, that the Sanctuary was not a part of the house after all. The broken-up wall – which accounted for much of the rubble I saw shifted off to one side or the other – led into a dirt passage, five to seven feet in length, and ending in a massive stone door ,which I at first, mistook for another wall.

Once I stepped into the dirt corridor, once it became obvious I meant to plumb the secret residing in this basement, red magelights appeared over the door and dotted along the ceiling of the corridor, rendering mine unnecessary. I looked at my hands. The red light made for dark shadows, and I felt like the darkness was holding its breath.

The door was heavy, and as I said made of stone, and looked like it should slide off to one side or the other on rollers. It was so massive I wondered how it had been gotten down here discretely – it would take several strong men to set it up on its end, let alone move it – that would take an entire moving crew. I touched the stone, and it was smooth as glass and cold beneath my hand.

Except for a very stylized scene, carved into, inlaid into the door. It took me a moment to realize, as I took in the details of it, that it tied in with the things Lucien had explained to me – and served as one final warning to anyone who didn't really belong here. It was certainly sinister-enough looking, with the red lights casting funny shadows.

The skull in the sky –that had to be Sithis…the dark shape of a woman, carrying one child – the Night Mother, obviously. And four other children, right hands raised in fealty, fingers splayed so they were all visible…

"What is the color of the night?" rasped a voice, dry like fingernails scraped gently across sunburned, flaking-off skin, right in my ear. I whipped about –nothing behind me. Silence fell, and the question did not repeat itself.

The air seemed to be really holding its breath and I felt my heart rate pick up.

"Sanguine…my brother," I answered softly, a little huskily from nerves. My hand moved slowly for the comforting hilt of the Blade of Woe, and I swallowed, waiting, trembling like a tuning fork freshly struck. I was nervous, not really afraid. And I mean that truthfully.

Is someone going to jump out at me? Or is there some kind of weird test that Lachance conveniently 'forgot' to mention…?

Then there was a slow rumble and the door I had been examining rolled open, revealing what looked like it ought to be an old crypt, or fortress. Sturdy, large stones, and a stone floor, magelights mounted in torches stood sentinel, ensconced in brackets on the wall, simulating the flicker of fire, and of warm golden light – though without the smoke, obviously.

I waited until the door stopped moving and then stepped in.

"Welcome home," the voice breathed in my ear, making my skin prickle uncomfortably. Gooseflesh rose up on my arms, despite my cloak, and long sleeves.

A moment later a skeleton – no, it's a dark guardian, I've read about them – shuffled up. It was dressed like a cross between a foot soldier and a monk, in long black robes –tattered about the knees, which showed heavy if ill-fitting boots. A leather skullcap adorned the head, and below this, painted on the white bone, above and between the eyes was a black hand. Blue coals for eyes leapt out of dark sockets, and coupled with a shield strapped to one arm, and a longsword across its back, and a mace at its bony hip, I felt mildly uneasy.

And yet, it hadn't done anything yet, simply stood there with one hand out, as if it wanted something.

I licked my lips, still a little unnerved from the encounter with the door.

"Your cloak. He wants to take your wrap," said a female voice, Argonian, given the quality of it, and she appeared a moment later, her reptilian features split into what looked like a grimace to me, but was probable a smile.

I wordlessly unpinned my cloak, took it off and handed it to the dark guardian which clattered its teeth as if to say 'thank you', and shuffled away, careful not to let the cloak's hem drag on the ground. "Hello there, do come in, it's quite all right," the Argonian woman said, her tongue flicking in and out of her mouth, an Argonian characteristic.

She had beautiful scales –Argonians usually do – red bands sweeping back from her eyes, bordered by pale gold scales, and the rest of her was either a swampy celadon green, or a shade of henna red. She was dressed head to toe in black leathers, which were evidently magical, or made for an Argonian, for they accommodated her oddly-shaped legs apparently comfortably. She also wore a hood pushed back so it hung in folds around her shoulders and down her back. She even wore a sort of head…drape…suspended from her horns by golden rings –it's fashionable enough, I suppose. With the way an Argonian is built – how they actually walk on their toes, with three apparent joints in the leg, she was my height. If she drew herself up, she'd be taller than Lucien, though narrower in build.

As I said, she was smiling, which, on an Argonian, is not always reassuring, because of their many and very pointed teeth. She also had a knife strapped to one hip, and a bullwhip to the other. "I am Ocheeva, mistress of this Sanctuary. Lucien has told me all about you…Sarielle, I believe he said?"

I nodded and obeyed, stepping forward. "Yes…" I said, finding my tongue, "I am Sarielle."

Ocheeva's grin grew wider and she gripped my arms, looking as though she might have meant to hug me, but checked herself. She smiled even more broadly and simply squeezed my arms before letting me go. I was grateful – I'm not used to being hugged much less by complete strangers.

"Then let me be the first…well, second, probably, to welcome you to the Dark Brotherhood! It is always a great pleasure to welcome another Dark Sister into our ranks! Truly, the Night Mother smiles upon her trusted daughters!" she slipped her arm around mine and began to guide me forward into the Sanctuary proper, as if she knew I was feeling a little nervous, wrong-footed and suddenly out of my depth. "Welcome to the Sanctuary. May it serve as your new home, a place of comfort and security whenever the need arises, for many, many years. Here, the barracks is this way," she pointed with her free hand and wheeled me in that direction, as I was now looking around with interest. "Of course, you won't have any contracts just yet – you being so new and all," Ocheeva assured me, "but when you do, you'll speak to Vicente Valtieri - I'll show you where his office is later – he's indisposed right now, or I'd have you meet him."

"Thank you…" I said automatically. I was starting to come back to myself, a little surprised how quickly I began to feel comfortable in Ocheeva's presence.

"Not at all," Ocheeva said and patted my hand. A solid wall divided the barracks into 'men's' and 'women's' sides, and also about five feet of the hall. "Men sleep on the right, women on the left – you know how girls prefer their privacy," Ocheeva chuckled and led me that direction and pointed to an empty bed, with a footlocker at its foot, and a small cabinet off to one side. All the beds were surrounded with similar furniture, like miniature rooms without walls. One of the occupants, with her bed in the corner – and full of fluffy pillows – had hung draped swathes of cloth from the wall. Another had a painting above her headboard, and a vase with a single golden lily in it.

"This is your space," the barracks was down a long, sweeping ramp and in a small wing of its own. "Here is the key –the footlocker is yours –rest assured, no one will touch your things," Ocheeva said.

"Izzat 'oo…Cheeva?" a pillow from the bed in the corner asked. A moment of motion, in which everything on the bed jittered and several pillows fell out, another pillow moved to reveal a blonde tousled head, then a face, then an entire person. "It's too err….eee.." the last word, I think, was supposed to be 'early' but was cut off by a gargantuan yawn. The owner of the bed finger-combed her hair with one hand, looking blearily and curiously at me.

"Antoinetta – your new younger sister is here," Ocheeva said, releasing my arm.

"Oh? She is?" Well, I was standing right there…but I grinned a little, as Antoinetta's eyes lit up. The sleepiness was draining so fast it was alarming, as Antoinetta threw herself out of bed. She stood a little shorter than me – but not by much, dirty-blond with brilliantly blue eyes and what might have been a sweet-shaped face, except that there was something hardened about it. Someone who knew what it was to suffer, I thought. She was also wearing a frilly nightdress, and took a moment to pull on matching slippers before she bounded over to me –and to my shock – hugged me tightly and squeaked in my ear, "Hello! Ocheeva said she wasn't sure when you'd get here…" she bounded back, letting me go, only to grab my hands. "What's your name?" She asked enthusiastically.

"Sarielle…" I said, a little slowly. I had never been so enthusiastically welcomed anywhere, and I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the energy and cheerfulness she was exuding. Are we sure she's an assassin? Because my head says no one that chipper and enthusiastic could be…my gut says 'look in the mirror, Sari'.

And a voice in my head echoed 'only around the eyes'. You know, Lachance may not have been messing with me when he said that – that might actually have been a serious and honest answer.

"Sarielle? That's pretty…" Antoinetta smiled. "It's _lovely_ to meet you – it's been so boring with only Tel here...you have no idea…" she said and flicked her eyes towards the ceiling, as if to say she liked 'Tel' just fine, but the other woman's company wasn't always fun.

"She likes to talk," Ocheeva hissed in my ear.

I nodded. I had noticed.

"Antoinetta," Ocheeva inserted when the young woman paused for breath. "Don't go and talk Sarielle's ears off. Sarielle, if you look in your footlocker, there is a gift from the Family for you – armor, to protect your precious hide."

"Thank you," I said a little shyly. The last time anyone worried about my hide – I mean, honestly worried – was my governess when I was learning how to swim.

"Not at all. Antoinetta – make sure she settles in, hmm?" Ocheeva said blandly.

I felt like a puppy being assigned to the care of an eight year old.

"So…where are you from?" Antoinetta asked, grinning broadly.

"Around Anvil," I said, a little elusively.

Antoinetta did not seem to notice. "Oooh…Is it nice?"

I shrugged. "Can be…" I looked over at her.

She was watching me very closely, and twisting a lock of her bobbed hair around a finger, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. "You've got pretty hair…you don't meant to cut it, do you?" she asked.

"I hadn't planned to…should I?" My hair is black, but it's an unusual shade of blue-black.

"No! Not at all!" Antoinetta giggled. "I was just wondering –it's such a pretty color. I'll bet it doesn't hold pins or clips or _anything_," the look she gave me hinted that for all her dapperness, there was something intelligent and rather dangerous rattling around inside her head.

I half-smiled. "How did you know?" I asked.

"Mine used to be that way," she reached up and gave her hair an affectionate fluff. "Then I tried to charm it red and the texture changed…" she sighed. "Can't do much with it now…it's too short."

I smiled. Despite reservations, new surroundings, new everything, I rather liked Antoinetta. She doesn't really seem like a killer…except for hints and glimpses.

"Tel says I talk too much…so you have to tell me if I'm annoying you…but I'll bet you're a better conversationalist than Tel…Tel is an _elf_…and she's _way_ older than me," Antoinetta sighed. "She's stuffy."

I smiled. "I don't mind…" I sat down carefully on my bed and Antoinetta bounded over and plopped down beside me, jostling us both. I grinned a little – this girl's unbelievable!

"I'm glad you're here! When Lucien told us he was going to see about a new sister, I was so happy…" Antoinetta beamed.

"How did he know?" I asked suspiciously, my brows puckering towards a scowl.

Antoinetta giggled. "He's got that effect on people – don't worry, he's nice," I sincerely doubted this, but kept the thought to myself. I'm not sure _I_ constitute as 'nice' anymore. I mean, whoever heard of a nice assassin? "As for how he knew, who knows? Lucien _always_ tells us when he's sure a prospect is going to join up. He's really smart."

Oh yes – he most certainly is smart. "Undoubtedly clever, I'll give him that…"

Antoinetta nodded. "I don't see why he's not running the Black Hand…but that's just me," she smiled pleasantly. "If it were a matter of votes…he'd have mine!" she waved a hand above her head as if casting said vote.

"How long have you known him?" I asked.

Antoinetta shrugged. "A long time – he recruited _me_, you know." her eyes darkened and her expression clouded revealing the much more serious side I had been seeing glimpses of from behind her cheerful veneer. "I will _always_ think of Lucien Lachance as my savior. When he found me, I was living in a gutter, an inch away from death. I owe him everything…he gave me my life…a family…" she shook her head. "I'm glad that he's my Speaker.

"Yeah…me too," not that I have anything to compare him to, but if you'd seen her body language, you would have had to be six degrees of heartless to say anything else. I may be a murderess, but I'm not totally heartless. Not yet, anyway.

"Gogron, you can't be thinking of serving that slop…" a woman's voice was saying, drawing near, along with the sounds of someone big, clanging around in armor.

"It's not slop! Come on, Tel!" boomed an Orismer's voice.

"Gogron and Telaendril," Antoinetta whispered – though I couldn't see why. Gogron was making enough noise to hide anything she said. "There…well, you know…" she made a hand gesture that made me snicker softly, a little perplexedly, if you really want to know.

Oh really? That's an odd couple, I must say…

"Whoa!" Antoinetta bounced to her feet and dragged me with her, and I chuckled, and she dragged us both out into the hall and stopped short of slamming into Telaendril and Gogron.

Now, I knew Gogron was an orc, and that Telaendril was an elf – a Bosmer, to be exact – and this was why they made such an odd pair….couple…if Antoinetta was telling the truth. Gogron was your typical orc – very big, very large…heavy armor with a warhammer almost as big as Ocheeva (or that's how it looked to me).

Telaendril was tall for a bosmer, taller than either Antoinetta or I, and she looked very dignified, elegant, dressed head to foot in green travelling clothes, a bow and quiver still slung across her shoulders.

An elf and an orc is a little unusual…but to be honest, I had to wonder how one of them didn't get _hurt._ None of my business. I don't _really _want to know. Moving right alone…

Along. Moving right along.

Okay – so I wasn't involved with anyone when I left Anvil. I'm still in a position in life to feel a little jealous of those with meaningful relationships…or just relationships…damn.

"This is Sari!" Antoinetta cheered while I mentally argued with myself.

Whoa…_Sari_? I know I call myself that…oh well. She calls Telaendril 'Tel', so why should I be any different? I smiled here – it was nice, to feel a sense of camaraderie, and belonging.

"Well…look at you – you're a little tougher-looking that I was expecting…I'd hug ya, but Ocheeva made me promise not to," Gogron said gregariously. He beamed, his underbite magnificently displayed, though this was oddly reassuring – it was a gregarious, genuine smile. He strikes me as being a little simple upstairs…but not a bad sort. Possibly, he'll be the most honest say-what-you-really-mean-when-you-mean-it person in the Sanctuary.

"Yes, we wouldn't want to break any of her ribs on the first day, now would we?" Telaendril said a little archly. She strode forward, radiating a certain maternal warmth that usually I would have been mistrustful of. Antoinetta kicked my ankle gently as if in warning, so I held still.

It's been a very weird day already, so I let her take my hands. "It's lovely to meet you, love. I only wish I could stay and see you settled in…_no_ Gogron!" she said sharply over her shoulder, when she swept Antoinetta and I towards the women's side of the barracks.

Gogron had apparently meant to follow, and we all heard him grumbling as he stomped out. "He's harmless…well…you know what I mean," Telaendril said as she walked us back. "Just doesn't always know his own strength…"

"Or the strength of his _cooking_…did I hear you trying to discourage him again?" Antoinetta asked, flopping belly-down on my bed and propping her chin in her hand, idly kicking her feet back and forth.

I opened my footlocker as Ocheeva had suggested, and pulled out the armor and stood there, oddly undecided.

Telaendril was already changing out of her 'normal' clothes and into her armor, without concern, so I followed suit. I quickly changed into my armor. It was magicked and shrank to fit me perfectly. "See? Looks good, huh?" Antoinetta chuckled, pretending to shine my forearm with her sleeve

"Well…it doesn't make my ass look big…" I said idly, standing up and making sure I could move around.

Telaendril chuckled. "You human girls…" but I didn't feel nettled.

"You're one to talk," Antoinetta chuckled. "So…_is _Gogron cooking for dinner?"

"Yes, and thank the Night Mother that _I_ won't be here…" Tel shook hed head. "It's one of the things he's deficient in…I swear, that Wrothgarian chili-cheese mess is _appalling_…" Telaendril shuddered.

I blinked – it sounds like an old argument.

"I'll cook!" Antoinetta volunteered cheerfully

"Love, I don't think that's a good idea either…you know how _he_ gets when you do, and I don't think that poor Sarielle should have to deal with that on her first day," Telaendril said kindly, gently, but firmly, too.

She sounds like someone's mother….well…not mine, obviously, but you know what I meant.

"Huh?" I looked from one to the other and got wicked grins from the other two women. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing yet…you're right, Tel…but I don't get what _his_ problem is. He's just being a big _baby_…" Antoinetta sat up, crossed her arms and frowned a little petulantly.

I sighed, here it comes: inducting the rookie, a painless procedure…heh. Yeah right. I pulled my hood on and fastened it at my collar bones, but pushed it off, like Ocheeva had worn hers.

"Where are you off to?" Antoinetta asked with interest.

"Oh, just some stuff, you know," Telaendril looked pleased with herself.

"Come on Tel…tell," I ventured, testing the waters.

Telaendril gave me a thoughtful, rather approving look, as if I had just answered a question for her. "Quick wits, hmm? Yes...Lucien mentioned you were intelligent, to say the least…"

"Is it common for the Speaker to discuss recruits like this? You make him sound like the village gossip," I said bluntly.

Antoinetta giggled and even Telaendril looked amused.

"_We_ asked. The last recruit he brought home didn't last. Made herself _very _unpopular with the Family," Telaendril said coldly, with a smile. "She was killed on an assignment. The assignment _you_ cleaned up, I would imagine. Strangled – terrible way to die." Tel finished blandly.

That explains a little, doesn't it?

"So we asked what you were like," Antoinetta said happily, "Had to do it fast, though – because Lucien's not often here. The Hand keeps him _very_ busy…they work him too hard." Antoinetta said her expression clouded, and indicated quite plainly that if she had her way, things would be very different.

"He works _himself _too hard, too, love," Telaendril corrected gently, though she looked like she rather agreed with Antoinetta's statement. "He could easily delegate…but you know how the members of the school of 'if you want something done, do it yourself' are."

"Yeah, I do. First hand…I'm a member…" I said mildly, and flexed a little in my armor. It was a little stiff, and made some of my movements a little awkward, but magicked armor doesn't require as extensive a breaking-in as nonmagicked armor.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's notes: I see the Family as being a family that knows it is either dysfunctional, or shouldn't even 'be', so they try doubly hard to make it work. Hence, why a lot of the in-sanctuary interactions are the way they are. I want the inmates to seem like real people – insofar as a game character can be real.

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Six: Settling In

--

Oddly enough, my previously voiced distaste for undead things doesn't extend to dark guardians. They don't shamble and shed body parts, or dust when they move. They're actually quite tidy – more like constructs than undead things. My distaste for 'gross' things also does not extend to the Sanctuary pet – or as I like to call him, the mascot – Schemer.

Now, Schemer is the _biggest_ rat I have ever seen in my _life_. He could eat some housecats for breakfast and _still_ want some of whatever we people-types are eating. He's very sweet and very spoiled. My initial shock was constrained to an 'ack' when Antoinetta scooped him out of nowhere and shoved his nose and beady eyes in my face.

However, he's quite tame, and in a way, it's unsurprising that we should have a rat as a mascot. I was surprised I accepted it so readily, and was able to pick him up and let him sit in my lap later, when he scratched at my ankle, stroking his back as I might do for a more traditional pet.

Turns out the reason that we of the Brotherhood take turns cooking is because we – by and large – find it inadvisable to let the skeletal dark guardians do it. It's something about not wanting undead of any sort near the food or the dishes we prepare it on, and I can't say I disagree. There _is_ something to not letting the skeletons do the cooking. I reiterate: there is a _problem_ with the _skeleton-guardians cooking_.

Gogron says it's because they always scorch the food, but I think he missed the more important point of '_skeletons' 'cooking'_. Yeesh.

Gogron was, as Tel had hinted he might be, making Wrothgarian chili-cheese bread – a specialty of his, apparently. And when Gogron cooks he's very enthusiastic, if nothing else. Now, Orcs in general like very…robust food, so to watch Gogron throwing things into the pot like he was, a normal person might just decide to head over to the nearest inn for supper that night rather than stick around the Sanctuary.

I was sitting on an unused stretch of counter, rather than at the table shoved off to one side of the kitchen, with its long benches. See, there are two places to eat: the kitchen, which would be very crowded if all the inmates of the Sanctuary were to eat there, and the dining room proper, in which everyone would have elbow room.

According to Gogron, supper is usually in the dining room, and as many of the Family as are there will try and be awake for it – a family meal, family time, you know. For any other meal – and they are scattered throughout the day, due to our rather erratic work hours – we eat when we're ready and stay in the kitchen out of convenience.

I took a very strong liking to Gogron within five sentences of conversation with him – an unheard of thing for me. He's very straight-forward, says what he means and means what he says. And he likes to talk - though perhaps not as much as Antoinetta – provided I don't try and get too technical or intellectual.

I _had_, at the outset of my 'keeping him company' while he cooked dinner, been standing off to one side, leaning on the doorframe in what I thought was an 'out of the way' place. However, according to Gogron, 'you're in the way, kid, here', and he had picked me up – very carefully by the waist – and set me on the counter, like a child puts a doll on a shelf.

I could see why Ocheeva had warned him not to hug me – Gogron, bless him, knows his own strength. He just doesn't pay attention to it.

And on the counter I stayed.

Normally I'd bristle at being manhandled like that, but it was very obvious even to the extremely unobservant that Gogron has a one-track mind, and that he didn't mean any insult or personal-space invasion. He was simply doing what he needed to do to get me out of the way – and put me somewhere safe. Which was a good thing, considering how erratically he was chopping up chili peppers.

Slivers were flying every which way, and once I had one hit me in the face, I decided enough was enough. Fingers might be next – and we weren't planning finger sandwiches for supper. Not to my knowledge, anyway.

"Here...let me do that for you," I finally said, watching the mangled peppers go under the knife.

Gogron shrugged as I slipped off my counter and walked over and took a smaller knife from the chopping block and began to slice the chilis up with an alchemist's care and skill.

See? Nice even pieces.

Gogron watched a few moments then went back to rattling around –which I mean literally. I think half of what he does is simply make noise, like he wants prove he's being very useful in here.

This was where I met up with trouble, or rather, trouble walked into the kitchen. "Well, if it isn't our newest little recruit…she doesn't look like much, does she?" The voice was Kajiiti, you could tell by the rumbling quality, and imagine my surprise when it turned out to be a Khajiit runt, dressed in blue conjurer's robes – he was smaller than I was, though broader of build, - absolutely scrawny for a Khajiit. Currently, his catlike features were curled into an expression of dislike and an attitude of superiority, his ears pulled back.

"Watch it M'raaj," Gogron rumbled. "You know how I get about you being nasty in my kitchen – it makes the food taste bad," Gogron looked at me. "Just ignore him."

That's rich coming from Gogron, of all people. Gogron doesn't strike me as the type to 'just ignore' things.

I looked at the Khajiit and pushed the finished chili peppers at Gogron, narrowing my eyes at the catman. "_Is_ there a problem?" I asked archly, gearing up for a fight. Someone's got his tail in knot and I don't really care why. I haven't been here long enough to insult anyone yet…so what's _his_ problem?

"Oh no," the Khajiit said sarcastically, "only, let's get one thing straight. The Tenants prevent me from _killing_ you, but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ you. I'll only sell spells and the like to you, because Ocheeva is _making_ me," it was obvious what he thought of this, and honestly, I already was sure that I didn't _want_ to trust the spells he _would_ sell me not to fizzle, or get me killed.

"Good – means I don't have to care. But here's the thing, puss in boots," I said softly and strode forward, glowering. I've got a sharp tongue and this was the time to employ it. "If you don't keep an uncivil tongue in your head, I'm going to cut your whiskers off while you're asleep."

It's a big thing for a Khajiit not to have whiskers.

"Bluff," M'raaj sneered.

"I don't bluff kitty-boo," I answered, with a smirk toying on my lips. I'd do it, too.

We glared and glowered – I won – and M'raaj slunk off, muttering dire commentary under his breath.

"M'raaj Dar has a problem with humans," Gogron explained, watching M'raaj's tail flick out of the doorway, "it just takes a while for him to warm up to new people," Gogron said, not sounding pleased. "Don't let him get under your skin –it's the only reason he does it."

"He'd better watch it –I don't think he realizes that the Tenants don't protect him from defacement," I scowled and slipped back over to my patch of counter and levered myself up onto it.

"Hn," Gogron chuckled. "Puss in boots…that's a new one," he grinned and winked at me.

"Well, it's true," I scowled, but the scowl melted into a grin.

Gogron has an infectious grin.

--S--

The Wrothgarian chili-cheese bread was _not_ as bad as everyone made it out to be. I loved it – ate almost as much as Gogron, if you can imagine, to the shock of my fellow Sanctuary-mates. Gogron, understandably, was delighted to have someone who appreciated good food. I was surprised – it looks absolutely unappetizing, but it tastes great.

The idea with chili is not to singe off a person's taste buds, but the flavor of this stuff is very strong and does take some getting used to. Gogron says he makes it bland and not-spicy for the rest of the Family – and I watched him load hot sauce onto it, like I would load syrup onto pancakes.  
Copiously.

--S--

It was getting late that night, when Antoinetta bounced into the barracks, smiling and made a flying leap onto the foot of my bed. I had borrowed a book of alchemy from the Sanctuary's library (yes, we have a library down here) and was hunched over, reading it by the light of the magelight torch above my head.

"He's back! You can go say 'hi' to Vicente now!" Antoinetta beamed.

I marked my place with a finger. "Huh?" she didn't have my full attention, as you can plainly tell.

"Vicente Valtieri – the guy you talk to about _contracts_. He's your _boss_," Antoinetta reiterated, grinning manically.

"I thought Lucien was the boss," I teased. Antoinetta is fun to tease – though I will always take care not to tease to hard or too often. Then it becomes cruel – right now, I was just feeling playful. I was full, I felt like I had _friends_, even the glimmer of accepting this as 'family'.

"Lucien is your boss' boss," Antoinetta corrected herself. "You're a murderer –the _lowest_ rank in the Brotherhood," Antoinetta said, informatively, not rudely.

"So…" I was going to make a 'for now' sort of smart-assed comment, but didn't get to.

"Knock to off!" Antoinetta gave me a playful shove that lost my place in my book. "Don't try that with Vicente. He'll just laugh at you."

"Oi!" I dropped the book and threw up my arms to ward any potential playful blows.

Antoinetta was smirking. "To tell you the truth…I only got promoted from murderer recently…just before you arrived," Antoinetta beamed at this achievement.

"Really?" I blinked.

Antoinetta smiled. "Does that surprise you?"

"Yeah…I thought you'd be two or three ranks ahead of me…" Antoinetta shook her head. "Well…that's good, though," I got up. "Well, let's go meet this…Vicente…"

Antoinetta's smile told me that there was a secret joke going on here, and I was stuck in the middle of it. "No – you go. It's _you_ he'll want to meet, I'll just, you know…wait here. Maybe he'll have a contract for you…probably not, though. It's only your first night – we're not _that_ busy just now," she began to pick at her fingernails and I narrowed my eyes, but I put the book under my pillow – a habit I formed as a young girl who liked to read and detested early bedtimes – and walked up to the main part of the Sanctuary, then down the hall to Vicente's office, which I had seen, but never actually been in.

I knocked firmly on the closed door and heard something like a drawer being shut, and a muffled curse, then silence. I knocked again, a little more assertively.

"Come in!"

I hesitated at the irritated tone then reached to push the door open just as it was yanked open from the other side –nearly taking my arm with it – someone's in a really foul…

"Yes? Ah, it's you."

"Hi…" I said a very automatically and more than a little lamely, eyes and mouth both a little on the round side. I managed to close my mouth so I didn't look like a hungry grouper, but continued to ogle the man before me. I couldn't help it.

Vicente Valtieri and I stood there, on either side of his office doorway, with expressions of mild amusement in Vicente's case, and a little bit of shock, in mine. Not even the knowledge that I was having some kind of joke played upon me helped- because I had been preparing for the wrong kind of joke.

See, what everyone very conveniently _forgot_ to warn me about, and what was probably the big Sanctuary prank to play on the new arrivals…is that Vicente Valtieri is a vampire. An _old _vampire…

And a very snappy dresser, though that was not a major concern at the moment.

I was surprised to see a vampire in the flesh…though considering the Mages' Guild view on vampires in general, I should have almost expected to find one here. I mean, they're supposed to be excellent predators on their own…

I also now understood why he hadn't been here earlier: he'd been asleep during the daylight hours, and then probably stepped out for some supper before coming back to be available to screen the new girl.

But his smile was oddly reassuring, for someone with fangs. "Well, now I see what the fuss was about. You'll be Sarielle – Lucien's newest addition. Come in," he sounded a little more pleasant, and stepped aside, returning to his desk, which was covered in paperwork, sorted into two neat stacks, about an inch thick in either case. The sheer orderliness of it had to be the product of decades of _practice_.

I could never keep a desk _that_ organized. A desk is _supposed_ to be disorganized – it's the only way to find things. Everybody knows that.

But I obediently stepped over the threshold, trying not to betray my own nerves and misgivings. It's very obvious what Vicente is, as I've said, and unfortunately, I'm a little biased against him just from the way I was brought up…

I will just have to trust that the Brotherhood has limitations on who is and is not eligible for snacking upon…this made me smile a little. It's okay if I can smile – it can't be too serious if I can crack a joke. Besides – despite his rather haggard appearance, he didn't seem particularly…well…nasty. Mean – those aren't the right words. Not even close.

Here's the thing, if you don't already know: vampires tend toward being a little on the…the bestial side…the ones that manage to separate the man from the beast aren't exactly a septim a six, if you know what I mean.

Vicente picked up and pen and glanced over then smiled again, as if he could tell _exactly_ what this little rookie was thinking. And maybe he could. Maybe it's even a part of his job to know what the rookies are thinking…who knows? "I promise, I don't bite," but he grinned at this giving me a good look at his fangs, enjoying his own joke, I think.

The hell you don't…but yeah, I had to work not to snicker here.

"The needs and tenants of the Brotherhood come before my needs as a vampire," Quite calm…if first impressions are accurate, I'll bet he and Lucien get along like a fish and water…bad metaphor, but you get the point.

I edged a little closer, like a schoolgirl unsure of how strict the new headmaster was, trying to look as though I was not nervous. Despite my efforts, I had the distinct impression that Vicente was very aware that I was still a little unnerved.

"It's your heartbeat," he said a moment later, and tapped his middle finger against the desk in what I quickly realized was an accurate imitation of my own heart. My heart rate jumped and so did the tattoo struck by Vicente's fingers.

"That's…different…" I said and gave an awkward half-grin.

"Isn't it though? Are you here for introductions, or are you ready for a contract?" Vicente asked. "Because if it's the latter, I'm afraid I shall have to disappoint you…" he turned and looked me over again. "The young ones are always so eager. Take the advice of a much older individual: be careful what you volunteer for – and how deep your let yourself get in."

"I'll take that under consideration, thank you," I said as politely as I could. Usually when I say that, I'm being sarcastic, but not this time. I wasn't about to promise anything out of hand.

Vicente nodded. "So – as much as I enjoy playing games with the new Family, perhaps you will just tell me your errand, and save me the guesswork?" it sounded courteous, but I got the feeling I was being sounded out. It was a much more gentle process, or so I felt, than the one Lucien had employed. It involved a lot less intimidation.

"Okay – tell me how things work around here," I said. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

"A superior tells you to do something...and you do it," Vicente said off-handedly, inking a pen and scribbling – or it looked like scribbling to me – a footnote on a sheet of parchment.

"Okay…" I considered. Mind games, is it? I gave real thought to my next sentence. "Tell me about the contracts we carry out."

Vicente's mouth quirked. "To the point," he blew on the ink after setting the pen back in its inkwell. He's got to practice this whole 'offhanded conversation' thing…"Contracts are straightforward. Someone wants someone else dead, and they are willing to pay for it to happen. Find the target, eliminate them, then return to the Sanctuary and report to your superior. No time limits or complications."

"I hear a 'but' in the offing," I said calmly.

Vicente turned to look at me, studying my face closely with those oddly red eyes. I had never been observed in such a manner before – not as if I were a pretty face, or something to be stalked, or hunted…but as if he could see the constituent parts of my very being, soul, heart, mind, auras…the things that were so often ignored in favor of the skin I wear.

"However, many of our clients request – or should I say _prefer_ - that their contracts be carried out in a specific manner. A certain place, a certain method of elimination…We try to honor these requests whenever possible. After all, the Dark Brotherhood's reputation has been built on providing...excellent service. Any Brother or Sister who can complete a contract while following a specific request will receive a valuable bonus, oftentimes a powerful magic item…ah. I see that has your attention?" Vicente's mouth curved into a smile, assessing, but still giving the appearance of being friendly.

This is a sharp mind, and not one I want to test my mettle against every day…he makes Lucien look kind of clumsy.

"I like toys," I answered with a bland smile.

"Don't we all?" Vicente chuckled. "I should warn you that you are best off at least _attempting_ to fulfill any...special arrangements. No one likes a useless assassin."

I smiled coldly here. "No, I imagine not…I also imagine they tend not to last too long. Lucky for the Family."

"Exactly. Now, as amusing as it is to pick your brains – for me - I do have paperwork, as you can see," he waved at the piles of it. "I tell you," he sighed, his tone changing to something that was decidedly conversational, shaking his head dubiously, "I shall die of drowning. Drowning in paperwork," he motioned to the stacks of it again.

"Isn't it a liability to use _paperwork_ for an _assassin's guild_?" I asked, crinkling my face. Even saying it out loud makes it sound like a bad idea.

Vicente smiled and looked at me, approvingly this time. "You know, Lucien asked me that very question when _I_ recruited _him _all those years ago," Vicente shook his head, but I thought I saw something like 'so that's it' cross his features.

"What did you tell him?" I asked – I have an interest in the rather…shall we say 'vague' personality of our Speaker.

"That any fool who came into an assassin's guild to raid _paperwork_ was so much a fool, he'd never make it out to share whatever he learned," Vicente said. "There must be _some_ organization, even for us. How else can we be sure we're not having our assassins bumble into each other, like children playing blind man's bluff, when all the players are 'it'?"

A well-phrased allegory. "I see…" I nodded. That was one of the things I hated about the Mages' Guild – too much paperwork. Too much documentation. And they still have too many people working on the same projects. Or rather, different versions of the same projects.

"Not that you need worry – those dispatched very rarely have anything to do with the paperwork," Vicente said. "Off you go."

I nodded and took the dismissal, shutting the door softly behind me, and smirked. You know: I could get to like the resident vampire. He's smart – and I like smart people.

I walked back into the common room to see several of the others clustered together, evidently watching for my reaction. I clapped my hands softly a few times, smiling sardonically. "Very funny. I almost _died_ laughing," This got snickers and I retreated to my space in the barracks and flopped onto my bed then got up and peeled my armor off and changed into my nightdress. Armor is not comfortable to sleep in, and I don't think that anyone expects me to sleep in it.

Only die-hard weirdoes sleep in their armor. I loosened my hair from its coiled bun, the braid hanging all the way to the small of my back. I love my hair – but it's a color I inherited from my father…

Ugh. I don't want to think about him.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: None! Enjoy your read!

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Seven: Sanctuary Life

--

I was with the Brotherhood for an entire week before Lucien dropped in – and even then it was only for a few minutes to pass off paperwork to Ocheeva and ask 'how's the new one settling in', but it seemed less interest and more something one asked to be polite. He looked like man with a lot on his mind.

I was, after all, sitting right there, he could have asked. I was reading another book, studying alchemy, from my favorite spot: draped over a comfortable, overstuffed chair.

"Fine, of course," Ocheeva said and she must have smiled, because Lucien looked past her.

"Good." And he was gone – up the well, which is the emergency exit, and also serves as the entrance for higher-ranked members of the guild.

I got to my feet and took my book, feeling restless.

It was raining outside – I could tell because A) Lucien had been soaked nearly to the skin (or so I'd imagine) when he'd arrived, and also because I could hear the drip-drip-drip when he came in and left. There was also a faint sense of cool and dank in the Sanctuary, but it wasn't too bad.

The dark guardian we called Shuffles – yes, they all have names – appeared to clean up the puddle of rainwater that had dripped off of Lucien onto the floor. There's a grate at the bottom of the well entrance –water from topside drains directly into that, so we don't have floods in the common room, when it rains and someone wants to get inside.

It was in that first week that I learned a lot. I learned, for instance, that Ocheeva has a twin brother – a very affable Argonian by name of Teinaava, with a streak of harmless, but wicked mischief a mile wide. He also needs spectacles for distance vision, but he maintains stubbornly he likes knife work so he knows who he's killing. At which point Telaendril, who had been in the room listening to the explanation with half a pointed ear, looked up at him and raised her eyebrows as if to ask 'is there a problem with a properly trained sniper?'

Yeah –that was awkward.

And Tel is actually training me to use a bow. I'll never be a spectacular shot, but I agree that it's a skill worth having. I just have to remember to practice on my own when she's away.

For being underground, the Sanctuary was a pretty comfortable place, once you got used to the fact that there were no windows. For that first week I kept looking up to look _out_ a window, and feeling surprised when there was only wall.

It was also during this first week that I found out that Antoinetta should be banned from working in the kitchen, end of story. Unfortunately, we all seem to love her too much to do anything but choke down some of whatever she made –she doesn't cook _that _often – and then head down to the local inn for something more substantial. She went with us, actually, and cheerfully chatted as we shoveled down more than palatable shepherd's pie.

--S--

I sighed as the well door clanged closed, and decided to retreat to the workroom. Our workroom is right beside the training room - that's where we do most of our potion concocting, though it also had a place to sharpen blades, and do minor repairs…you know. Whatever maintenance you need to do, you do it here.

I was there to take advantage of the community store of ingredients and prepare a few potions. I had been occupying my time with blade practice, spellwork and alchemy – three things I felt would be valuable, one of which I was genuinely interested in. I like alchemy. The thought of making a poison, or a restorative with a few simple ingredients –and then several more complicated ones – was fascinating, the least because it can be an exacting process. And I was already trying newer, more difficult potions. The sort that I have to watch very carefully.

It's a time when the perfectionist in me is happy.

What _I_ wanted was something to damage a target's health – something potent, because slow-acting poisons require a lot of good timing. I'd rather be done quickly, so quickly they can't call for help or retaliate...but I'm not that good yet. But hey –that's what practice is for. Right?

Right.

Which was why I was humming to myself a little tunelessly and grinding up peony seeds into as fine a powder as I could manage when Antoinetta came to keep me company.

"What is it?" she asked, wrinkling her nose at the already-prepared seeds, resting in a clay bowl. She climbed to sit on the worktable, her feet on the bench and sank three knives into the wood by her feet and produced a whetstone and began to sharpen a fourth with even, sweeping motions, adding the rhythmic 'shwik' of stone on steel to my own chopping, and the gentle bubble of liquids on heat. I was heating them magically, so the fire burned without fuel, more controllable than a traditional fire.

"Poison," I answered, glancing over at her. It's not uncommon for us to not use furniture properly, and I was glad of the company, even if I really needed to be concentrating.

"For whom?" she grinned.

I shrugged. "For whomever – it's just something I'd like to keep in stock, if you know what I mean," I said blandly. It's true: with access to ingredients – here or freshly harvested - it was a sin and a shame not to keep a healthy stock ready for use. And a couple of the ones I'd brewed earlier needed to ferment for awhile before they were _really _effective.

Antoinetta nodded. "I'm not good at alchemy…I don't have the patience." Which isn't to say she can't do it – she's simply not interested.

"Then study," I advised.

She made a face. "I'll leave that to _you_, thanks. I prefer…a more direct method," she tested her dagger and then set it on the table and pulled another knife free from the bench at her feet, and began to sharpen it, paying careful attention to her task.

I chuckled – Antoinetta loves her dagger, and poisoned or not, loves to use it. You should see her in the training room – she's scary-deadly. Scary, because she just _doesn't_ look like a cold-blooded killer. Oh well, I suppose I might not either…but that's a good thing. Less suspicion cast if we get picked up after a crime…how's a little thing like her or me going to throw a big beefy guy over a balcony, I ask you?

Answer: feather spell.

And a charm spell on the guard.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point was is that it's my night to cook and I need to start in…twenty minutes. More than enough time to set this mess to simmer…

"You are going to remember to, you know, wash your hands before you start supper? _Really well_?" Antoinetta asked, eying the poison in the works with some distaste.

I smiled. "If your lips go numb after dinner, you'll know I messed it up," I said blandly. I started as something small and furry –or rather, large and furry – bumped into my ankle. Schemer was looking up at me. I swear, he understands human speech, because he always turns up when we talk about food. "You don't want to be up here, sweetie," I said, and scratched his shoulder with my foot. "Especially if you're hungry –you know we don't keep food in here."

"What's for dinner?" Antoinetta asked, watching me add the powdered seeds to the steeping juice in the retort, shaking them little by little from their bowl.

"Soup."

"What kind?"

"Potato," the liquid turned murky green, it would purify to a lovely lavender, and then I'd work on taking the taste out. I nodded and scribbled a note.

_Sarielle's Experiment: Don't Touch._

I set it very obviously on the table – you'd have to work to overlook it. If you don't mark stuff, it has a habit of disappearing. Or being usurped. Learned that on my third day here.

And off to the kitchen.

Now, I'm not a fantastic cook, but I _can_ cook if I need to. And there's no one I know who doesn't like creamy potato soup – M'raaj Dar doesn't count, because I could ask if the sky was blue and he'd say 'no' just to spite me. And I haven't thought to spare for _that_ kind of spite. I really don't.

However, it was fun working in the kitchen with Antoinetta for company. I mean, she's awfully cheerful for an assassin, and is more than happy to prattle on about whatever you want to talk about. It was from these long chatter sessions –and I must admit, when others chatter, so do I – that I learned a little bit more about her. And some of the shadows that lurk behind the cheerful face she presents to the world.

Nothing concrete, mind you, but let us say that she has had it way rougher than I _ever_ did…rough enough that she had chronic nightmares, which only a rough life has trained her to keep any noise she makes in her sleep muffled. But for me, who's used to sleeping in still silence, I woke up habitually when she was sleeping badly.

Even if it's not wise for an assassin to think in terms of 'good' and 'bad' – after all, we kill people for a living - it's good that Lucien brought her here. She'd probably be dead in a gutter somewhere otherwise. And she's such a sweet person…to the Family, of course.

"Sooner or later you'll start regular duties," Antoinetta said after a long stretch of thoughtful silence. "You've had time to settle in. By the way – if you ever visit the Anvil Sanctuary…you're in for a treat," she grinned.

I smirked, my dislike of Anvil in general notwithstanding. "Do you…have someone you're eyeing there?" I asked, looking back down at the celery I was slicing up.

Antoinetta blushed slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about…"

I shrugged and she went back to the potatoes she was peeling. "So – lots of cute guys?" I asked.

"_Lots_," Antoinetta nodded. "Avoid Chorral, though – they host a Speaker themselves…and they don't like Lucien at all."

Now, before I present the wrong impression, let me give you the exact words Antoinetta had used several days ago, when talking about our Speaker (wow, I've taken to this 'we', 'family' and 'our Speaker' thing pretty quickly, huh?). We had been rehashing how we got here, this time in detail.

She said: Lucien is my angel. He saved me…he was the first person to care about me. And if he told me 'jump off that cliff'…I'd do it. And trust it wasn't a long drop. He's our family. And we're his. And nothing's ever going to compromise that. Family's important…

It's a form of unconditional love, and not something I ever expected to see in an assassin's guild. But then again, I suppose we're still people, more or less. And while I agree, that _this _family _is_ important…I rather think my 'real' family is less so.

I keep waiting for Vicente to walk up and tell me I need to get rid of that anchor to Anvil.

I don't want to do it, but it's not out of affection. It would be like killing sheep. I mean – who set fire to the house as a teenager? Granted, the spell I used was within my control when I started…it just got _out_ of my control a little too fast – Gogron thought this was hilarious. The lifestyle of the rich and bored, ladies and gentlemen. It's amazing I grew up with any sort of common sense or sense of…I can't call it 'right' or 'wrong'…but a personal honor code.

"Hey! You're burning the soup!" Antoinetta shrieked.

"Shit!" I yelped and within seconds rescued the soup from the heat and repeated the expletive again a few more times, while Antoinetta laughed from the table where she sat, paring knife pointed in a safe direction - which is to say, away from me.

I grinned – here's to the mistakes of the careless.

Dinner went over well, though – if the soup was a _little_ overdone, no one said anything, and Antoinetta and I kept shooting conspiratorial looks at each other and stifling giggles: if only the others knew what we knew…It's utterly hilarious.

"Still," Telaendril was arguing with Vicente about politics – a favorite subject with those two. They've both lived long enough to being to see patterns in human behavior. "It's happened before, it'll happen again. And the emperor is getting old…and I don't much like his eldest boy. Now, the second and third turned out all right," Telaendril was saying.

"Or perhaps you are judging by…the wrong standards. I find that while his disdain for shows of force, and military power are a little disturbing..." Vicente began. He was not eating, but he was sharing a bottle of wine with Tel, Ocheeva and myself.

I tuned their argument out. It sounds like an old argument…and Uriel Septim might be the oldest fogey on the face of the planet, he's not exactly frail. It'd take some kind of shit to get that one to kick off. Personally, living in Anvil, I feel a little isolated from politics…then again, with shiftless parents like mine, it's amazing I wasn't isolated from _education_ in general.

Shit, now the soup tastes really bad…

"What's the matter, Sarielle?" Teinaava asked, elbowing me gently in the ribs as I grimaced, "find a peppercorn?"

I swallowed. "Nah – just…unpleasant thoughts. They make the food taste bad."

"Then cheer up!" Gogron elbowed me in my other side and I yelped and slammed into Teinaava, who slipped off the end of the bench and landed with a thunk. I landed on my elbow, and grunted as my arm suddenly exploded in pins and needles from my elbow to the heel of my hand. I hate hitting my funny bone…

"Ow," I announced as I picked myself up off the bench, rubbing my elbow, and giving Gogron a rather aggrieved look.

"Say one for me too…" Teinaava groaned as he slowly picked himself up. He shook his head and muttered darkly in Argonian. I didn't need to speak it to get the gist of it.

"Ow," I repeated.

"I'm sorry…" Gorgon said tentatively, his green skin flushing slightly purple.

"It's okay…" I patted his massive forearm. "Just…be a little more careful, huh? I'm not as tough as I look," I said this rather cockily and there was moment of ringing silence before I wound up snorting into my glass of wine, which was followed by the others' sounds if incredulity. I am _not_ physically imposing, or even a 'tough' looking individual.

"Well, that clears that up," Antoinetta chuckled.

I snickered softly as well. Community dinner is always fun – and with that I returned to my talk with Teinaava about Black Marsh – his homeland. See, as it turns out, Teinaava and Ocheeva were raised by the Brotherhood, and were actually not that much older than I am – but being raised in the Brotherhood, of course, put them further down the path than I.

They're Shadowscales – born under the same sign I was, the shadow, and dedicated to the Brotherhood as hatchlings. They'd been in ever since, and had come to Cheydinhal having completed a stint in Black Marsh.

According to Ocheeva, Lucien wasn't a Speaker yet when they arrived, but he had taken the two Argonians under wing, making sure they knew what they needed to know. Despite the fact that the age gap was not as great as it might have been, they still saw him as a mix between parent and brother.

Shepherd. That's a good word.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's notes: none!

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Eight: Too Much Garlic

--

Turns out, Lucien Lachance _doesn't_ actually spend his time recruiting pretty girls, getting them to turn seemingly white hands to the subtle art of assassination. That's not really his job – but it's down in the rules that the invitation to join the Family is _always_ made by a Speaker, and I lucked out. Or not – I guess it depends on how you look at it. The 'not' is the fact that he takes being creepy _way_ too seriously. This information was eventually illuminated by Vicente, who seems to have more free time than he admits to.

And I'm not buying that 'drowned by paperwork thing' anymore. Uh-uh. The guy's too organized to _ever_ let something like that happen. Lucien, yeah, I'll buy it. I'll bet he's the type with the desk that never sees daylight.

Vicente? Not a chance.

Now, despite the fact that I had met Lucien three times, so far, I still had a surprisingly vague impression of him. Not much beyond clever, killer, and creepy, so I was relying on what the others said to piece together who he actually _was_ – if you know what I mean. Building an idea of what his personality was. Gauging his thought processes –you know, trying to get inside his head. It's important if I ever want to try and match wits with him –which I do want to do.

Like I said – I enjoy verbal sparring, and Lucien had made quite an impression. Just as Vicente had.

However, I didn't talk to him – Vicente, that is – long enough to get much more of an impression on Lucien – and the impression I did get was that Lucien was a person I should never, under any circumstance, get on the bad side of. There was something dangerous in his eyes – and I know that's the sort of thing 'smitten with the bad boy' girls say…I _mean_ it.

There was a literal and palpable force behind his eyes that said quite clearly, 'if you cross me, I will kill you, and move right on along. I will not lose sleep. I will not trouble myself with moralizing.'. And that chill in the air was a little nerve-wracking too – good thing I don't panic easy.

My other impression was that here was a man who was _very _good at what he does – and there was a sort of ruthlessness that was just as palpable as the nasty creepy aura he projects. All in all, the sort of person you'd expect to be in charge of an organization like the Dark Brotherhood – or rather, in charge of a district, or theater of operations…but that last one sounds a little too…military for us. We're assassins, not soldiers, as Vicente pointed out, when I had used the expression 'theater of operations'.

I quickly found that life was not as exciting as I had thought it might be, and within ten days of my arrival I was brewing poisons and potions with little restraint because I had so little else to do – on the eighth evening I had begun to check in very regularly with Vicente – hence why we had time to chat – about whether or not he had any contracts for me.

While my willingness to get a move on and get involved amused him, he never had anything for me, and I felt mildly disappointed. I channeled the disappointment into other things, but I was beginning to wonder why anyone had bothered to recruit me, if there just wasn't enough to do.

--S--

We all took turns cooking –though admittedly Antoinetta was the one of the ones who truly _enjoyed_ doing it. The drawback was – aside from the fact that she just was _not_ good at it - was that she seems to have gotten onto a garlic kick lately…and that upsets our resident vampire. It's like...a. really bad food allergy, and even the smell of garlic makes him a little cranky.

Which was why he and I were working on opposite ends of the workbench.

Generally cool and calm and collected – or perhaps just rather cultured – Vicente was slicing up harrada roots like they had all done him a personal wrong, and he was out to exact his pound of flesh. Yeah – I see you grinning – I know what you're thinking too: pound of flesh and a pint of blood in a crystal goblet. Right?

Right.

Regardless, he was in a very bad mood- having given me one warning look before he had settled down to concoct whatever it was he was up to. Vicente was not, I learned, much interested in alchemy in and of itself. He was interested in daedric reagents.

I picked up my mortar and pestle. Thank goodness that this sort of thing is good for soothing nerves, and within a few minutes I was grinding dried peppermint leaves into a very fine powder. More like dust. It occurs to me that peppermint is one of the best herbs to clear the mind…

I set the pestle down and continued and then, at the end of the process, added the peppermint.

"What is the peppermint _for_, if you don't mind my asking?" Vicente asked, a little aggressively, but given his mood, I let it slide without taking it personally. I knew it wasn't really me he was angry with me. Nor was he really angry – just irritable.

"Concealment," I answered blandly.

"'Concealment'?" the vampire echoed. Evidently peppermint was not his idea of subtlety.

I looked up. The harrada was still oozing its juices all over the place, giving off a vaguely acrid smell, but Vicente was watching me bottle the poison I'd been concocting. This one paralyzes first, and then attacks the body systemically. "Concealment. It makes the mess smell harmless – otherwise, this stuff is pretty damn foul," I smiled when I said it.

"You sound like Lucien," I couldn't tell if this was a compliment. "Always with the layers upon layers of thought. I can see why he has hopes for your career," Vicente said idly and went back to chopping his roots. The smells of peppermint and harrada clashed spectacularly, but they were enough to dull the pervasive smell of garlic. "Of course, we'll have to see how your nerves are."

"My nerves are fine," I said blandly. "Do you know the Speaker well, then?"

"I recruited _and_ trained him," Vicente smiled at my furrowed brows. "When you have been an assassin for the better part of two centuries, you invariably find yourself training _all_ of the new recruits," he said calmly, as if this were a conversation about…I dunno. Laundry. "He's quite the alchemist. Innovative."

"And what advice would you give a new recruit?" I asked with interest.

Vicente considered, or rather, considered me, and I suspected this advice changed depending on to whom he was speaking. "In your case, I would say try to be serious on a job. It would be very embarrassing to be killed on your first mission."

I nodded.

"Speaking of which, I do have one that might be good. Get your feet wet, if you will," I could tell he was making a sort of private joke. Technically, it won't be my feet getting wet. Depending on how I do it, it's either my hands or all of me – if there's splatter, you understand.

"Really? You're not…joking?" the thought that he was not, that he actually had something for me, some way for me to actually start my career –which was still in dry-dock – was exciting. I was beginning to feel distinctly frustrated, and I think the old vampire knew it.

It was hard, after the first week, to watch the others all coming and going on assignments, coming back with the sense of a job well-done. I wasn't ready to start crying yet – I've never been much for tears…but I was getting to the point where I was 'killing' practice dummies many and daily, and being very sloppy about it. To the point that Gogron said if I kept it up, I'd end up having a Lucien moment.

And when I asked what _that_ was supposed to mean – I had been sweaty, and feeling aggressive – Gogron laughed. He always does when we girls act all tough – he thinks it's cute, though I don't think he underestimates us. He just knows it's unlikely we'll be pointing weapons in his direction with intent to use them.

"I once saw Lucien deal with an insubordinate Brother, someone who had broken the Tenets. It took me a _week_ to get the blood off my boots." Gogron grinned at the memory. "He finally dropped the buggar and looked around and asked, 'any other takers?' and gave this chilling look…made _my_ blood run cold!"

I had yet to ask how Gogron had gotten into the Brotherhood.

Vicente, being unaware of my mental meandering, looked over at me and smiled, nodding once. I had successfully kept the excitement out of my voice – Vicente would know, because my heart was going pitter-patter at the prospect.

"How do you feel about pirates?" Vicente asked conversationally.

I shrugged. "I don't have much use for them – but I doubt that that really matters."

"Indeed," Vicente nodded, "if you are up to the task..."

"I am," I broke in with a nod.

He grinned again, his eyes glittering, "Good. You," he pointed with the tip of the knife he'd been slicing harrada with at me, "will go to the Imperial City. You will find the ship _Marie Elena_, and you will kill the captain. One Gaston Tussaud."

"All right," I said with another nod, eyes locked on Vicente's face. Killing pirates? So that's what he meant by 'get my feet wet'. I doubt this _Marie Elena_ will be in dry-dock. I smiled thinly at the joke.

"He's an excellent swordsman," Vicente added, gauging my reaction.

"I'll be careful," he can't use a sword if he can't _move_. Note to self: bring this simmering poison, once it's ready.

"Surrounded by his crew," Vicente continued lightly. This was probably the sort of easy contract saved for rookies.

I shrugged again. "Crew shmew." They can't touch me if they can't _see_ me. I have chameleon spells – and a touch of pure, true invisibility.

Vicente seemed to like that answer, or rather, that string of answers. "Very well – you've your orders," he said.

"What – I don't get a…" I grinned. "…'to do' list?"

"You disappoint me, Sarielle. We _are _in the business of _murder_. Do you honestly think we let that sort of thing be penned and carried about?" he asked mildly. "This is not the Morag Tong."

No it's not. Despite the enmity between the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong – which everyone knows about – Vicente gave the impression of having a healthy respect for them. In fact, being the rookie that I am, I credit him as overestimating those thugs. But, better to overestimate than underestimate – I shouldn't call them thugs, but you know how it is, with a rival guild. No one ever has anything nice to say about the other.

You should hear what they say about us.

And true: hadn't I pointed out the problem of paperwork in an assassin's guild? "I suppose not. _Marie Elena_, Gaston Tussaud, Imperial City. Perfect job for _this_." I shook one of the bottles at the brewing poison. It was more potent than others I had brewed, you could tell by the richer hue of the liquid. I've been improving steadily, with lots of practice.

"However you wish to do it," he shrugged, "so long as it gets done. I suggest you move quickly –but don't bungle it. We do not usually accept contracts with time constraints – and if we do they very rarely are taken by the lower ranks," he didn't mean this as an insult, simply as an explanation. Vicente sees his role as primarily making sure that the newer assassins learn the things they need to know, about the power structure of the Family, about contracts, about anything, really. "We get the contract and we carry it out…in our good time."

Don't bungle it: that could get a person killed. And I don't plan on getting killed – life is just getting interesting.

"Hello!" came a trill from the door and a powerful burst of garlic-scented air. My eyes started to water a little.

Vicente shuddered as the smell of garlic blasted into the room and stabbed the knife in his hand point first into the wood of the table, his lips drawing up into a thin look of austere disapproval, his eyes _glowing _crimson.

That can't be good.

"Dinner!" Antoinetta sang obliviously. "I really think you're going to like this…"

I really somehow doubt that. However, with Vicente in a funny mood…

I strode forward and hustled Antoinetta out of the room, lest Vicente throw something at her – which looked more than likely (my bets were on the whole workbench) – and shut the door with my foot.

"Wow…he's in a really bad mood," Antoinetta frowned. "Did you see the look on his face? It was scary!"

"He's _allergic_ to _garlic_, remember? And it smells like one of the key components of your…culinary endeavor…" I said, using a euphemism for 'that mess you're scorching in the kitchen'. I was also trying not to breathe, and trying not to look like I was suffocating. Hoo…we've gotta do something about the garlic…this is ridiculous. My eyes were watering like I was crying by the time I got to the kitchen.

Antoinetta giggled at this. "Garlic is _good_ for you…"

"But only in _moderation_, Antoinetta," we both turned to see Lucien Lachance stepping out of the passage that led up through the well, nose wrinkled, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and despair – which oddly made him seem less like the guy in charge and more like…a Brotherhood brother, if you take my meaning. He blinked a couple of times, eyes watering slightly at the fumes. "Where's Vicente?" he asked, sounding a little gagged, but otherwise all right.

I reached up and dabbed my eyes with my sleeve

Lucien was not wearing his long black robes, but rather, the same shrouded armor that the rest of us – barring Gogron and M'raaj - wore. I also realized here that the robes made Lucien look a little…pudgy. This was not, in fact, in any way true. Ah, the wonderful world of subterfuge…I have to admit though – when he's not trying to pull of the creepy assassin look – whatever his personality flaws are, he makes the whole black leather armor thing look _good_.

I pointed without smiling at this last thought to the door of the workroom. "He's a little cranky," I said succinctly. "And in there."

"I don't doubt it," Lucien said, more to himself than to Antoinetta or me. Vicente in a bad mood did not seem to concern Lucien, and I shrugged.

If he's not worried about it, I'm not going to worry. He's a big boy - he can take care of himself…I'm starting to worry about Antoinetta though…you might not be allowed to kill off your Brotherhood siblings, but that might not apply to Vicente relieving Antoinetta of enough blood to keep her out of the kitchen for a couple days…though he might want to do it before she has dinner.

"Will you be joining us?" Antoinetta asked, smiling. "It's been a while."

Lucien looked at the workroom, then towards the kitchen, then back to Antoinetta's beaming face and nodded briskly. That taken care of, he strode off towards the door, tossing his black robes, which had been folded over one arm – to Shuffles.

I turned to watch. I had been understating the situation when I'd called Vicente cranky.

"Hey…"Antoinetta tried to pull me to the kitchen.

"Hang on, I want to see this," I smirked, crossing my arms and resting my weight on one leg.

Lucien opened the door and ticked his head nonchalantly to the right, narrowly avoiding the pestle that came flying out of the room with a shout of 'dammit Antoinetta!'

I'd never heard Vicente swear before – it was a little startling. He's usually very well-spoken, unlike the rest of us.

"Well, that's an exuberant greeting. I hadn't expected it from _you_," Lucien said calmly and stepped into the workshop, pulling the door closed behind him.

I choked on a laugh: that was a calm retort for someone who nearly got his head taken off by a flying pestle.

I could hear Vicente's muffled voice ranting and I bit my lip. Wow – I had no idea he was so worked up.

Or maybe he and Lucien know each other well enough that the vampire doesn't think twice about ranting in the presence of his…well, the Speaker. I was going to say friend but…does that apply to Speakers? The others have been saying – mostly just in passing –that when Lucien is wearing the black robes, he's officially in charge, otherwise, he's one of us. I still haven't quite got my head wrapped around that concept yet – but I suppose it'll come in time.

I also get the feeling that it's not necessarily a usual arrangement between a Speaker and his home Sanctuary. I've never heard another Speaker named, but from what I can tell, the team here tends to think very badly of at least half of them – namely the usual complaints that the lower echelon makes about the higher-ups not closely tied to them.

I turned and followed Antoinetta with a shrug. Whatever. I'll take my lead from the others.

Lucien arrived in the dining hall a few minutes later, looking quite unperturbed, though still dealing with the effects of too much garlic in the air. He had also taken off his hood, and it now hung about his shoulders, much the same fashion as the rest of us sported. Except in Teinaava's case: the hood doesn't fit comfortably over his headcrest, so he never wears it.

Lucien's face had more angles than you noticed when he had the hood on – I guess that's because when you see a weird guy in black robes and hood you're more worried about whether he's trying to kill you or not. He looked tired, but there was, as always, that same aura of readiness.

"Tel?" Ocheeva said quietly.

"Hm?" Ocheeva didn't really have Telaendril's attention – the elf was reading a book with one hand and stirring her soup idly with a finger of the other – and had been in the dining room since before Lucien had arrived, her nose buried in her book. She raised the finger and sucked the soup off of it, eyes flickering back and forth.

I glanced at Lucien who was smiling at the book cover.

"Tel?" the Argonian repeated.

"Hmm? What? Oh, hello Lucien," Telaendril smiled. "Haven't seen you around here for awhile."

Lucien shrugged and there was a moment as dinner commenced when we all sort of watched Gogron downing dinner. Gogron will eat anything. And a _lot_ of anything. And right now, he had a massive bowl in one hand and was pouring soup down his throat like it was wine from a bowl.

Then, almost as one, we all shook our heads and went to our own soup and more importantly, the completely Antoinetta untainted bread. "Antoinetta…you have _got_ to cut back on the garlic…" M'raaj-Dar said, licking his lips like an overgrown housecat and grimacing the way only a Khajiit can. "My _sinuses_ are _stinging…_and that's nothing compared to…" he glanced over his shoulder as Vicente strode past almost silently, but with such an aura of violence, I wondered if he was going topside to pick a _fight_, as well as for his own supper.

I do _not _like the _furball_. I've known several Khajiit, and this one is the one that gives his whole race a bad name, I thought moodily as I dunked my bread in the soup. I didn't look over at him, knowing I'd start scowling. 'Foul smelling ape' is his latest slur for me, and I'm about ready to go follow through with my initial threat and cut off his whiskers while he's asleep – just give me a reason. _Please_.

"Hey, Sari," Teinaava hissed.

"Yeah?" I looked over at Teinaava, who was giving me a scary look, until I realized it was a smile and an intense stare. Argonian expressions are hard to read.

"Rumor mill says that someone's about to get her hands dirty," his tongue flicked as he spoke.

"Yeah, that's right," I said calmly with a shrug.

"Really? Do tell," the offhand comment was from Lucien, I looked over at him – he wasn't watching me, but was eating steadily. He glanced up when I didn't answer right way.

Didn't he already know? I mean…he does bring the contracts, right? Or…does Vicente actually choose who goes on a contract? How does that work? I'll have to ask, when I get a chance, and once the garlic's out of the air.

"He's not Speaker tonight – no robes," Antoinetta whispered, picking at her armor.

"It's just a trip down to Imperial City," I said with a shrug. I was going to take her word for it – I had wondered whether the Hand themselves wound up like…like step-children in the family, or something. You know – part of the family but not really? Apparently not – and this time there were no inter-family jokes being played. "I'll scout it out, see what gives," I could feel my logical side being beginning to turn like a waterwheel in a strong, fast current.

"Who's the mark?" Antoinetta asked.

"Gaston Tussaud…ah, I see you've heard of him." I noted with a smile.

Antoinetta shrugged, her expression reflecting recognition of the name. "He was kind of well-known several years ago. Not so much now, but," she shrugged again, "There you have it. I don't know what you mean, Lucien," she changed tracks and Lucien looked up, "there is _just _the right amount of…"

"_Bollocks!"_ Teinaava said loudly. "You could take the roof off _my_ mouth with this mess…" he pointed into his half-full bowl with his bread.

"Then _you_ cook," Antoinetta said dangerously, narrowing her eyes, and giving us all a glimpse of the dangerous side of her personality, "and if I find talons or anything _strange _in it…I'll be sure and let you know." The last part was definitely a threat.

Teinaava deflated a little bit and I grinned.

"Don't look to me for help," Ocheeva said, holding up her hands, but I noticed she wasn't really eating either. She was just making a good show of it. To be honest, and fair, this soup wasn't as bad as the last time she'd cooked – at least it was edible.

I will admit, though, that there _was_ too much garlic in the food, but the soup was thick and otherwise quite good. Antoinetta just needs to learn a little moderation…then again, I think there might be something wrong with her taste buds…like she may not have many, if this is any indication.

"Tussaud still uses the _Marie Elena_," Teinaava was saying, "unless he's come into money. It had a funny sort of balcony on the stern. You'd have to be a Khajiit, or have boots with springs in the heels to get to it…but it might lead to the captain's quarters."

I nodded, glad of the input. "I think I can handle that," I heard M'raaj Dar scoff, but ignored him, as I usually did.

"Don't try the old gag of painting yourself up and trying to charm your way in. A freelancer tried it several years ago…it didn't end too well for her," Telaendril said with a bit of a shiver.

"Never crossed my mind…" I said. The idea of impersonating a whore had too many holes, too many opportunities for things to go wrong. "No wonder she was freelance…" I said softly, not amused.

There was a moment and then the titters and rueful smiles of agreement began to show around the table. Yes, we tend to be a little hard on freelancers. I kind of wonder where there _are_ freelancers, but I suppose there must be some additional criteria that the Dark Brotherhood looks for in their members.

Like Lucien said to me 'that is why it is you, and not the alley basher'.

"Well, if I've got to go…"I looked over my shoulder at the water clock on the wall – it wasn't late, not really. Only six thirty. "…might as well be tonight." I finished my soup, got up, and cleared away any empty dishes that had yet to be taken to the kitchen and deposited them before going back to my space in the barracks and opening my footlocker and began checking and preparing my gear.

I departed the Sanctuary around seven-thirty. I was glad for the lengthening of the days – it would be daylight for a while yet…and with my current sleep-wake schedule undefined by 'night' and 'day', as I was living underground, it did not bother me to be travelling at night. I almost preferred it – fewer people on the roads.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Nine: A Watery Grave

--

Gaston Tussaud was a pirate, and he wasn't gone to seed. He was fond of the drink, but it was not worth the effort to try and poison it outright. That had too many chances for something to go wrong. One botched attempt and I'd be in hot water – poison would be a back-up, I decided, as I watched Tussaud drinking and being generally loud and obnoxious – or at least, obnoxious to my mind.

Water was the main concern about this mission, because the _Marie Elena_ was in the harbor, and weather was threatening. I wasn't worried about getting away – I can swim like a fish. Comes from growing up in a coastal town, with parents who rarely knew when you were in the house or not. They only cared when they realized you'd been gone and they didn't know how long since you left.

I was dressed like a normal resident of the Imperial City, and was able to get a good look around. The _Marie Elena_ would sail with the tide –which was not a pleasing prospect. It meant that I had arrived just in time – and with less time to plan than I'd have liked.

Fortunately, Teinaava had been quite correct: there was a sort of balcony at the stern of the ship – and it _might_ lead to the Captain's quarters. In fact, I was rather sure that it did – it would make sense, Tussaud was a flamboyant man, if nothing else. He liked good clothes and I could see him having a balcony on his ship.

I made sure I knew which one was Tussaud within minutes of my arrival on the docks – so I knew who I was killing well in advance. I didn't like the look of his first mate, however – a dunmer woman with an attitude and a cutlass that I was sure she could use to devastating effect.

She didn't like me lurking by the cargo – and I decided it would be suicide to try and smuggle myself on board. Particularly if the ship set sail before I could get out of my hiding place, do my job, and get back to Cheydinhal. I'm a strong swimmer, but really, why take the unnecessary risk of having a boulder thrown into the plan? Or worse –what if I got _stuck_?

I'd never live it down, if I lived at all!

The plan was not exactly a hastily made one, but it wasn't the exactingly-prepared affair I was hoping for. Despite the fact that the contract was straightforward and probably easy for an experienced assassin, I refused to allow myself to get complacent. I felt just a little disappointed that the mission was so straightforward, no special arrangements, no 'if you can pull it off' extras.

I pulled myself back onto task. I remembered nearly getting caught by Manheim and the legionnaires at the Inn of Ill-Omen, I was not going to repeat the mistakes I had made previously. My delicate sense of awareness says that mistakes will get you killed, at best. Best not to make them, if you can help it.

--S--

It was late when lanterns inside the ship finally began going out.

I had been hiding under a chameleon spell in the shadows quite successfully for some time. My black leathers and hood would aid me later, and I felt safer wearing the leather armor than I would have, wearing just dark clothes. I didn't intend to be seen, and while the chameleon spell would keep me from being anything more than a wrinkle in the air, I had also wrapped a scarf about my lower face, just in case I was seen. But standing still and silent as I was, cloaked in shadows and blending in with my surroundings, a person would have had to know I was there to see me. Or incredibly luckless enough to walk right into me, hence why I was not on a thoroughfare.

It was two in the morning before I began to move, having given people time to get to sleep. Even the night watch aboard ship was dozing at his post. Masser was new, and Secunda waxing, so there was very little light, but that was not a drawback – it meant I would have better concealment when my spells finally became close to useless.

I broke cover slowly, a shadow in the shadows and ran, hopping up onto the stone balustrade that ran the length of the boardwalk, ran along it and made a flying leap at an angle towards the balcony. I landed nimbly and tumbled as far as I could onto the balcony itself – a rough landing, I can tell you - bumping softly into the railing on the other side, in a crouched position.

I listened – there were no sounds, except the sounds of the harbor waters slapping against the ship, the creak of ropes, the occasional normal sound associated with a harbor at night. Nothing to indicate that I had been heard. I slid over to the door on my knees, keeping my head down below the level of the railing, and tried the door. It was locked, and I tried to spell it open twice before giving up – I simply didn't have the skill to do it. I could sit here and spell it all night and nothing would change. The door would stay locked, and I'd be stuck outside.

Well, I'd expected as much. I reached into my belt and produced a pair of lockpicks. Putting one in my teeth I inserted the other into the lock. I've never been really good with this sort of thing…but I'd been practicing – it's a skill you really need if you plan to be a career assassin.

I have a key, but I also know where my skills are weak.

I broke three lock picks before I finally managed to get the damn door open. After breaking the second I swore softly at the door, just before I broke the third one. Fourth time is a charm, but once the door was unlocked, I didn't open it right away. I waited, listening.

The ship rocked gently under me and I waited, making sure the sounds of my tinkering had not alerted anyone.

Nothing.

I turned the handle slowly, and reached down, grabbing the hilt of the Blade of Woe and freeing her without even the traditional sinister sound of steel being freed.

See, a real assassin – well, let me say a _stealthy_ assassin, so as not to insult Gogron – will muffle any such sound. So the blade slipped over the felt that lined the sheath and pulled free. I had not put the felt there – it has always been there, keeping the blade's hiss at the draw silent.

Tussaud was sprawling face down on his bunk, snoring softly. There was a lingering smell of strong spirits, which pleased me. Drunk, or even mildly intoxicated, he'd be slower, his senses dulled. I'd spent most of the evening before taking up my position in the shadows watching him drink.

I reached down and freed the small vile of poison from my belt and then a second. Both were felt wrapped so they wouldn't clink together in transit. The first I poured into the half-full mug of wine, just in case I failed.

Yes, a _mug_ of wine.

My thought behind this was that if you nearly get assassinated, you want something to steady your nerves – he'll die when he drinks it. I believe in contingency, in 'just in case'. Even though this plan was not leaving too much to chance – and I didn't expect I'd need the contingency - but you never know.

The second vial went onto the Blade of Woe, creeping viscously across her blade. I looked at the sleeping captain and tucked the two empty vials into my belt, snug against my leathers, silent, and secure. Or as secure as I could get them without compromising stealth.

I walked up and positioned myself in the good captain's blind spot and then stopped.

Just a moment to think, and it was a good thing that I took that moment to think.

I walked over to the door and turned the key in the lock, and then took the key, putting it in my belt, away from the vials, but still snug and secure. Just in case there was trouble, I wanted a few seconds in which to make my getaway.

I walked back to the captain and took a deep silent breath to calm myself. First contract…it gets to you – nerves jangle, and there's a palpable sense of fear of discovery, dread that the mark will somehow wake up and foil you, and the general sense that this is really it. Even people like me, who refuse to panic, who make a conscious effort to master their nerves and butterflies, still have nervous shakes and misgivings.

It will probably get easier as time goes on.

I took the Blade of Woe in both hands and angled her, one hand wrapped around the hilt, the other resting against my grip, to add force that would drive it into the captain's body and silence him forever.

The blade hovered for moment inches from the base of the captains' skull – I was going to do this fast, just as I had done with Rufio. He wouldn't be able to scream. The drawback was that it was messy – and this time I did not have a blanket, or anything to protect me from the blood spray. Oh well – this time I was not pretending to be helpless, and my getaway would deal with that. There was a soft 'pfft' as the blade went in, and blood sprayed, spewed and spattered everywhere. I pulled the knife free and moved down to wipe the blade down on the pirate's trouser leg, reaching up to wipe blood from my face.

My heart stopped as there came a knock at the door, but my feet moved automatically, taking me back to the door on the balcony, after I took the poisoned wine and threw it on the floor, taking the mug with me. I'd ditch it in the harbor.

A messy killing, but not sloppy – I wasn't about to leave the poisoned wine lying around. I had been sent after a single target – I don't want anyone else. That would make this sloppy, if there were other casualties. That was the perfectionist in me, demanding satisfaction: the contract was for Tussaud, no one else, so I must clean up after myself.

I closed the door, relocked it with the captain's key, and threw the key into the water, along with the mug.

I could hear the muffled pounding on the door behind me as I climbed up onto the railing and then stood up and dove headfirst into the harbor arms over my head. Clouds were rolling in – it was going to rain, I could smell it on the air.

I never heard my own splash as I speared into the wet silence like a fishing bird hitting a mark, and began propelling myself forward, breath held until I thought my lungs would burst. I popped up out of the water like a cork, took a deep breath and vanished underwater again, taking only enough time to see which way I would need to swim from here. I might have had more trouble had I been in open sea, but Lake Rumare is really a lake, and therefore fresh water that didn't sting the eyes too badly. Still, I wouldn't recommend trying to swallow too much.

And I reminded myself to look out for slaughterfish – the Rumare variety are particularly vicious. I cast a detect life spell and clenched the Blade of Woe in one hand. It slowed my progress, but if I got attacked by a slaughterfish, I wanted a weapon ready, on hand. Such an attack wouldn't kill me of course, but slaughterfish bites are nasty.

--S--

Finally I hoisted myself sodden and dripping out onto the rocky cove I'd scouted on my way towards the Imperial City. It was quite a swim, but the storm hadn't broken yet –though it was getting close, as the peals of thunder told me. In a storm-battered lake, I might have had more problems, but as it turned out I had timed this beautifully: during the calm before the storm.

I didn't stop to rest, though I would have liked to. I was starving from my long swim, and tired. I immediately took refuge and changed out of my wet leathers and into my dry clothes, and crammed down the rations in the pack I had hidden here. I was grateful for my own foresight as I gnawed on the bread as I walked.

A note on the shrouded armor that I had been given me upon my induction: assassin's leathers are spelled to repel blood and water and all manner of things. Otherwise they'd be damned inconvenient. Too much so to use practically, given the fact that we get filthy in our line of work. My hair smelled like lake water. I yanked my hood off and hammed it into my backpack after my armor and pulled my cloak snug.

The rain started as I swung north. I hunkered in my cloak –thank goodness it wasn't really cold. But the fat droplets of rain pounding on my head were entirely unpleasant. I was looking forward to getting home – I wanted little more than a very hot bath.

I mean Sarielle soup hot.

--S--

I arrived back late – the only ones up were the dark guardians and Schemer, who immediately ambled up and began scratching at my ankles for attention. Some people might think it's gross to have an overgrown rat as a pet – but I rather like Schemer. I picked him up and cradled him as I might do for a cat and slipped into the barracks. The others were sprawling, or curled up on their beds and it occurred to me, as I silently deposited my bag of gear by my bed, that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they sleep. So much so that I sat down to have a good think about it.

Take Antoinetta. We all know she's seen the short end of the stick. She sleeps curled up, in a tight little ball that would probably attract very little notice, and tonight, she was wrapped around a spare pillow. Her sleep was quiet, undisturbed by nightmares.

Telaendril had her eyes half-open, the gleam of whites visible – that's how bosmer sleep, with their eyes half-open. I don't know if it carries over to the other elven races. With her hands folded over her stomach she looked dead, except for the slight rise and fall as she breathed.

I continued to caress Schemer's ears and then set him down on my bed and gathered clean clothes and my bathing bag.

See, we have our own bathing area – and it's segregated, before you ask. It's a bit of work to get the bath up and running, but within a few minutes I was soaking happily, scrubbing travel and the smell of lake water from my hair and skin.

I soaked until I was in danger of falling asleep in the tub, then I drained it, changed into my clean, dry nightclothes and dragged myself slipper-footed to my bed, and flopped down on it.

I lay there for a moment with my eyes open, feeling my limbs get leaden. Then I pried my blanket loose from under me and tossed it over me, ignoring the top sheet. My eyes were getting so heavy…

--S--

"You're back!"

I yelped and kicked violently as Antoinetta squealed. She only does that when she's up to something…

"Yeah, I'm back…I'm also asleep. Go away," I pulled the blanket over my head, ignoring the fact that one of my feet was now sticking out from under it and getting cold. I curled up in a ball.

Sleeeeeeepy…..

"But…you can't!" Antoinetta cried.

"Why?" I grunted, I was slipping back to slee….

"Because!" my blanket was snatched way. I hate it when she's manic. "We're planning a girls' night in! And your _back_!" Antoinetta caroled.

"Antoinetta. I got back in the very wee hours of the morning," I said as I sat up, glowering, letting the snarl enter my voice, "_and I'm really, really tired_."

Antoinetta gawped.

I snatched my blanket impatiently from her unresisting hand. "Talk to me in another six hours or so," I disappeared under the blanket and heard Telaendril's voice from the door – though not her words. I was sure she was asking 'what's wrong?'.

I heard Antoinetta's comment through: _she's scary!_

Yes –she's scary. Good night.

--S--

For the record, by the time I work up at a more decent hour, feeling properly rested, I was also feeling a little apologetic. I checked in with Vicente, who was awake (what he would probably call 'early') and took my purse topside. Turns out M'raaj Dar and Teinaava both were out and _that_ was why we were having a girl's night.

Vicente's original comment, upon seeing me after I'd knocked on his office door was 'Sweet Sithis, _that's_ why…'

Meaning that when the girls seriously outnumber the guys, Antoinetta calls a girls' day and kicks the guys out of the common room. Or tries to. Gogron would rather boil in oil than be around a bunch of tittering, chocolate-devouring women…and I dunno about Vicente. He's got his own room, so I suppose it doesn't matter. Probably a little inconvenient, though.

He was, however, pleased by my efficiency and I was given a standard-issue Black Band, a ring of black metal that was neither warm nor cool to the touch, but seemed to drink in all light. Apparently, everyone gets one on completion of their first mission. Within moments of putting it on I felt the enchantments it bore settle into place. It's a sensation…a feeling of 'becoming sneakier', I suppose. It's hard to describe.

I also got paid – which was nice, needless to say.

As a sign of apology, I bought chocolate – and a lot of it. More than I would ever eat, and mostly because I was feeling really sorry for having been so snarky this morning with Antoinetta. She's really a sweet girl...as far as an assassin can be. Though I notice, that we tend not to think of each other that way: as far as we're concerned, _we're _just fine. Everyone _else_ is weird or like sheep.

--S--

"Here. These are for you," I said a little awkwardly, once I'd gotten back, to Antoinetta, who was reading on her bed and looking a little upset.

She looked over and her expression cleared a bit.

"I'm sorry I was snarky," I added.

"Ooh…these are my _favorite_," supposedly all chocolate is Antoinetta's favorite. I wish patching up all misunderstandings was this easy, because she grabbed my arm so I sat down hard beside her and held out the box in front of my nose. "Have one!" she said around the sticky caramel.

Now, I love sweets. The problem is, is I have no sense when I'm eating them – so I'll eat a whole box and wonder where it all went once it's gone. "Nah," I shrugged, lying, "I don't like sweets."

"No?" Antoinetta blinked, a little bug-eyed. "Not even a little?" she asked.

I shrugged.

"Hm. Okay," she shrugged cheerfully, and with that she started gobbling down sweets like _I_ would do.

Hmm.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Ten: The Breakfast Bunch

--

"You first Sari," Antoinetta threw a chocolate at me, which I caught – a little clumsily, not expecting it and having a goblet in my other hand – and threw back at her. Antoinetta had had no trouble in shortening my name down to something that was perky and chipper-sounding – not anything like me. I prefer to think of myself as a life-loving pragmatist. But, whatever made her happy – I couldn't complain, not in good conscience, anyway.

"No one," I answered with a shrug. It was weird, having a girls' night in, because I'd never had one before. No sisters, no real friends – and my mother's idea of a girl's night in…well. I made it a point not to be home those nights - urgent business, or Mages' Guild errands – any excuse, really – and sneaked back in, invisible or chameleon-bespelled.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt very blasé about my idiot parents, so much so that I actually smiled. Oh, if they could see me _now_. They'd both drop dead of massive heart failure.

Hmm…

Telaendril raised her eyebrows as the chocolate I had lobbed bounced off Antoinetta's nose, though she ignored it. "Nobody?" Antoinetta asked, looking wholly surprised.

Yes, I am afraid that Antoinetta –while shy around outsiders in person - is a hopeless romantic, and thinks it's a crime punishable by being tickled to death not to have at least one person you've got your eye on.

I sighed and leaned back onto the pillow between me and the wall. We were cloistered in a corner of the common room, in our pajamas, with sweets and wine and girl-talk. "I…was the town bitch," I said distastefully, curling a lip at my glass of watered-down wine, "and I mean that as the town 'I'm going to rip your guts out and perform a disintegration spell on them if you ever come near me again' kind of bitch," I said and waved dismissively when Antoinetta gaped, as if she wished she hadn't brought it up.

I thought this reputation was actually something to be _proud_ of, especially considering my family's reputation for being party people. Most people thought I was adopted, I was so different for my parents. "Mmm…but don't say you're sorry – I'm just picky. Like I told Lachance – I have _standards_," I nodded here for emphasis. Standards indeed.

His response to that statement echoed in the back of my head. _Don't we all?_

Antoinetta giggled. "You know, we _do_ call him Lucien, around here…except when he's got his Speaker's robes on, then its Speaker," yes, I remembered that from the other night. It was a habit I'd slipped into.

I shrugged – did it really make a difference? I highly doubt he'd care _what_ I called him, so long as I said it politely. I grinned. I was at a point right now where I honestly didn't mind that he'd manipulated me so successfully. I had made up my mind to repay the favor one of these days – which satisfies my need to think, plot, and a thirst for nonviolent revenge, as in a prank war. We'll see how it goes.

It'll be good for him.

"Picky?" Tel blinked.

I looked over at her, grinning again. "Why the sudden interest, Tel?"

Tel chuckled and sipped her wine. "Well, Antoinetta and I have had this talk at least four times already…" she shrugged and shook her head.

Antoinetta has a habit of rehashing things – I've noticed it. It's a little annoying, but at the same time, rather endearing. You start to forget she could carve you up without a thought. "Ah, old gossip," I sipped my own wine.

"What's your type?" Antoinetta asked. "You already know about Tel and Gogron," Antoinetta reached over to knock the back of her hand into Telaendril's ankle.

I considered; not about Tel and Gogron – yeesh - but about my 'type'. "I don't know if I have a 'type'. Whoever he is, though, he's gotta be smart. Preferable witty or clever…" I smirked and decided to have a bit of fun with this. "And beautiful hands."

Oh crap. I actually know someone like that. Ugh…

"Beautiful _hands_?" Antoinetta asked, and I was glad that I hadn't ever expressed the opinion to which the comment pertained aloud. I'd never hear the end of it, I'm sure. "What've hands got to do with anything?" Antoinetta scowled thoughtfully – Antoinetta doesn't scowl well, by the way.

I smiled rather wickedly and closed my eyes. "Can't _you_ think of a couple things?" I opened my eyes to find that Antoinetta had turned crimson and was goggling at me. "Beautiful hands," I smirked.

"Beautiful hands," Antoinetta repeated. Yeah – that girl's got an active imagination.

Tel was nodding idly, a thoughtful expression on her elegant features. "Well, I'm not the village matchmaker, so I'll let you scout your own – Antoinetta, I'm sure, will be happy to help you find someone."

"Thank you, no," I said blithely. "I'm an impeccable judge of character..." I stopped, with a sort of half-grin on my hanging-wide-open mouth, then laughed. It was a moment before Tel and Antoinetta joined in, realization of what I had said and its implication dawning.

I'm living in the middle of an assassins secret underground Sanctuary, for crying out loud. I glanced down – I was still wearing the Black Band – as were, I had noticed, all the others. For me, I wore it on my left hand, the forefinger, so it's not in my way. Telaendril wears hers on the ring finger of her right hand, and Antoinetta wears hers stylishly on her left thumb. Just an interesting fact – I didn't think to look and see if Vicente wears his – like I said, everyone who's completed even one contract has a Black Band.

Well, we all laughed.

Then door in the well ground open and then Antoinetta swore softly as first Gogron stormed in through the front entrance – even if he'd had a well key, I sometime think he'd get stuck if he ever tried to use it, unless the well was spelled like the window. There was no way Gogron could get though an unspelled window that size.

Lucien and a big Nord I didn't know climbed in from the well entrance, that serves as our emergency exit and back door. The lower ranks of the Brotherhood don't get well keys – I think the higher-ups think we'll lose them or something.

"Crap," Antoinetta grunted succinctly.

I took that to mean that the party was over, she got up and sighed theatrically, giving Gogron a baleful look. Gogron stopped and looked shiftily from Telaendril to Antoinetta, as if unsure whether it was safe to walk into the room any further. "Party's over - we're inundated…" Tel said with a sigh.

"What's this?" The Nord made my fingertips tingle, and not in a good way. I can't say what it was, it was the same almost palpable sense of 'dangerous' as Lucien has…only less constrained.

"Pajama party," I answered mildly.

"This is Sarielle," Lucien said benignly – he was quite a bit shorter than the Nord, and nowhere near as broad. This Nord makes even _Gogron_ look small, though Gogron's broader through the shoulders. "The new one," Lucien offered as an explanation.

"Ah. Feisty, right?" The Nord grinned, showing slightly crooked teeth –one of which was missing. His brown eyes swept over me, brows puckered and I was sure he wasn't just admiring the view. He was gauging what my killing arm was like.

I smiled here, nevertheless. "I can be," I said sassily, and grabbed the bottle and turned to find Tel with the blanket, and Antoinetta with the chocolate. I grabbed my pillow and we retreated down to the barracks. So much for the party. Well, more accurately, so much for the party outside of the barracks: but hey – we still had drinks and sweets left, and no one apparently goes to bed until both are gone.

Crap, my mother would love that sort of arrangement for a party. Yeesh.

"Who _is_ that guy? He makes my fingertips tingle…and _not_ in a good way," I stated once we had reconvened in our barracks. I didn't need to preface the comment with 'that Nord'.

Tel and Antoinetta both shrugged, unconcernedly. "He's Lucien's go-fer. Elrick isn't usually here, less often than Lucien is. He spends way too much time out in the boonies, if you ask me…" Antoinetta shook her head.

"Hn," I said with mild disinterest as I absently selected a chocolate. This one had a yummy, fruity center…I closed my eyes and used my tongue to spread the filling around the roof of my mouth, to savor it better. Mmm…yummy.

"I thought you didn't like sweets," Antoinetta blinked, though she was grinning as if to say 'I've caught you now!'.

"I'm having a moment of weakness," I answered mildly, my words a little muffled by the chocolaty goodness caressing my tastebuds.

Hmmm…chocolate…

--S--

Lucien was still there the next morning – to my surprise. I wasn't sure why I was surprised, except maybe it was because he didn't _look_ like anything except a guy who didn't get enough sleep the night before. And I'm not used to seeing him look…well, _normal._

Lucien came stumbling out of his room while the rest of us were making breakfast, his hair pulled back in a frizzy-from-sleep ponytail, and his eyes only half open. It was surprising - not the calm collected individual who'd so successfully gotten me here in the first place.

Forget my own involvement in that, for a second. I sort of mothballed the concept that he was in charge at the moment – he just _didn't_ look it. I grinned to myself. Well, looks like there's no such thing as the 'epitome of assassin appearances'. Apparently we all have off-days.

Well, I said that 'the rest of us were making breakfast. Better that I say that Gogron and I were making pancakes with reckless abandon. Tel was sitting at the table reading, Elrick, the Nordic go-fer, was watching the movements required to flip pancakes one right after the other much as a snake eyes a mouse.

I'll bet this boy can really put away groceries. Speaking of groceries, it surprised me the amount of stuff in the pantry around here. This is a very well-stocked kitchen, and it evidences that the residents of this Sanctuary like food, and like to eat well.

Lucien sat down – actually collapsed - at the kitchen table with the very bleary twins, and Antoinetta. He sat there, looking disgruntled, his chin propped in his palm, watching us slinging batter and throwing pancakes hither thither and yon, as if he couldn't understand why we were so energetic and enthusiastic this early in the morning.

"Breakfast's up!" I barked throatily and watched those who were still half-asleep wake up a little more, and began throwing pancakes onto plates which were issued to bleary breakfasters.

It was amazing, I thought as I poured more batter on the griddle just before Gogron began slinging whatever he had on hand onto the batter to make 'flavored' pancakes. Teinaava was leaning against his sister's shoulder and there was a raspy quality to his breathing that made me think he might just be snoring – don't ask me _why_ everyone was up if it was such an unearthly hour. I can only assume it was because Lucien was here – and from what I understand everyone here likes Lucien.

I like him, even if I have decided to playfully hate his guts. I grinned at this and I heard someone – I'm not sure who – mutter 'uh oh'.

Ocheeva was staring blearily at the pancakes as if debating how far she could get to eating them before she slumped face-first into the plate. Lucien still looked rumpled and a little stiff in the joints, dressed in a dark linen shirt and dark trousers, while the rest of us we wearing pajamas still. Why bother with black? There's no one here to impress but the so-called family.

Then again…I know what it's like to take care with the image I present to the world.

Some call it vanity.

We call it influencing a perception.

"I don't get how come you two are so...ugh…perky…" Teinnaava yawned, his forked tongue curling in the air as he did so. It's an Argonian thing, and not a bad habit. I think that Argonians _can _taste the air...in this case, it'll taste like pancakes and coffee.

"Practice," I said cheerfully and set a heavy jug of syrup on the table.

Lucien automatically reached for it.

"Coffee?" I offered.

The kitchen's not tiny, but when you've got this many people packed in for breakfast – the dining room is usually used for supper – it's an enormous inconvenience for everyone to be getting their own things. If you're not cooking, you're better off keeping your backside parked somewhere.

"No," he grunted.

"Yes," Ocheeva said and elbowed Teinaava who gave an 'uh huh', his eyes flickering open again.

I set coffee down for them and went back to making pancakes until there were enough for Gogron and I. I settle behind my pile and smiled manically at it before taking the jug of syrup from Gogron. I scowled and glared at Gogron and Elrick who were both grinning at me.

Grumbling softly, I got up and began raiding the pantry for more syrup. "And my pancakes had better be there when I get back or someone's losing hands!" I barked sharply, and heard a couple of sheepish snickers that probably belonged to Antoinetta and Teinaava.

"Lovely girl," Elrick said blandly, a little sarcastically.

I returned with fresh syrup and scowled at my pancakes before plopping down and dumping the sweet stickiness all over them. My scowl faded as the maple-flavored treat pooled on the fluffy golden cakes.

"That's disgusting," Telaendril said, gaping slightly at the amount of syrup rolling down the blueberry-filled cakes in rivulets.

"Pass the butter," I said with a vaguely manic look on my face as I grinned at breakfast.

Did I mention that I'm a morning person, with eight hours of sleep under my belt? It's only when I get woken early that I get cranky and snarky.

Butter was passed and I looked up. Teinaava was grinning at me. I winked at him and slapped a pat of butter onto the pancakes and promptly demolished the entire stack.

Breakfast actually lasted a while – it was midmorning when we finally adjourned – mostly because after people's second or third cups of coffee –or second or third stack of pancakes - people were ready for conversation.

Gogron and I actually had to get back to the griddle to make more, which was fun because people were really starting to wake up, and could now appreciate the skill needed to chain-flip pancakes without tearing or folding, or otherwise mutilating them. It's nice to have your cooking appreciated – and I felt a stab of worry when Antoinetta volunteered to make supper, because half the table's smiled became fixed.

Lucien – because Antoinetta couldn't see him was even shaking his head as if to say 'not happening'.

I suspect they say as little as possible, so as to avoid feeling like they've kicked a puppy. We don't kick puppies for no reason around here. I've noticed, Antoinetta gets regarded as the little sister of the bunch – more so than I am.

I'm actually quite pleased about that – part of me had this irrational fear I'd be treated like a kid for months before was accepted as a competent grown up. That was how it was at the Mages' Guild - I was new, so I was treated like an idiot.

No such problems, whatsoever, here.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's notes: Due to a conspicuous lack of background information on most characters, I am exercising a **lot** of creative license on their varied backgrounds – particularly in Vicente's case (also – I ask pardon, it's impossible for me to have a 300 year old store of wisdom/life experience, so I'm seriously winging it ;). I am endeavoring to keep it fairly 'real' and would also like to thank the Oblivion Fans on DA. You all know who you are. -

Also: special thanks to Pheonicia, who beta-ed this chapter after I posted it, and got the flow of it moving a little better. She saved this chapter - lots of cookies to ya!

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Eleven: Vicente's Counsel

--

Lucien was still with us two days later – and it was very strange for me to suddenly trip over him everywhere I went. The library, the workroom – it was driving me crazy. Then again, it had been raining steadily and violently for the past two days, to the point that not even Vicente wanted to venture outside, claiming he would 'make do' until the rain stopped.

It was bad – and it wasn't just Lucien I was tripping over, if I'm honest: it was everyone. And everyone was tripping over me. I'm not used to being _stuck_ in a place which suddenly seems to have too many people. Or maybe it's more accurate to say, I'm used to going outside whenever I feel like it, and the quickest way for me to 'feel like it' is for me to feel like I can't. I also learned, during this time of rain, that you just _notice_ tripping over people you don't see often, than tripping over the people you do.

In those two days, I learned that Lucien enjoys alchemy as a way to relax, he thinks the library is some kind of storage room, and he likes to play cards. Doesn't matter what game, really, he just likes to.

Incidentally, that wound up being a Family thing: he'd show up with someone –usually Gogron – and they'd sit down at the kitchen table, drink on one hand, snack easily accessible in the middle of the table, beside the spot where they'd put cards and play. And gradually one or more of the rest of us would drift in and watch.

I also learned that Vicente plays chess – and usually plays with Telaendril or Lucien. Lucien says he hasn't the patience for it, but you'd never know to watch them play – which I did one evening, sitting in a chair facing perpendicular to their game, and trying to figure out rules that no one was explaining to me. I was fine with that. Turn it into a lecture and my brain turns off.

I almost think it was because they enjoyed my company – because we did talk idly about how bad the weather was, about idiots in charge, you know, normal topics of idle discussion by people slowly getting cabin fever.

Lucien voiced the opinion that he hoped the Listener was knee-deep in _mud_ just about now.

But I somehow don't think it was _mud_ he really hoped the Listener was knee deep in. Because he had _the_ wickedest grin on his face when he said it. I'm sure you can imagine what that looked like – kind of lopsided speculative, and not very kind. All in all, it was a great look for him and made me snicker softly.

But – as I said, after two, almost three days of being trapped in quarters that seemed to be rapidly shrinking, the rain stopped and the sun decided to grace us with its presence.

I bolted as soon as I had a picnic lunch for one ready, shouting to Tag – one of the dark guardians – that I was going _out_, and if anyone asked he _didn't_ know where I was.

Not that Tag can talk, of course. The guardians can…communicate…but then it's like playing charades. In this case, he clattered his teeth chidingly – or I imagined it was chidingly.

--S--

The morning sun was potent, and so bright after being in the dim underground for so long that it actually hurt my eyes. But the air was fresh, and promised a cool day – and I could see the tail-end of the storm. I left Cheydinhal by the main gate, and wandered into the sweeping hills of greening grasses that it overlooked.

The smell of the air was full of herbal grass-smells that are almost impossible to describe adequately. It was more than pleasant to wander the lonely hills between Harlun's Watch – the nearest settlement - and Cheydinhal, knee-deep in high, if damp, grasses and feel the sun on my face, and watch the clouds racing along in fat fluffy clusters.

I was not just here for pleasure – I was also restocking ingredients for the alchemy cupboard, which those of us with the inclination towards had nearly emptied. I heard Ocheeva complaining about how she was going to have to go buy replacements the next time she went to do the grocery shopping. If that was the case, I wanted to go and help. For Ocheeva it's not a hobby, it's something you do with a specific goal in mind – and she doesn't really practice. She's got a more direct approach to her 'deathcraft', as Lucien called it.

See, Ocheeva, as the Sanctuary mistress, is in charge of finances, supplies, and pretty much everything administrative, plus she oversees contracts for the more advanced members. I sometimes wonder why Vicente isn't in charge, but I get the feeling that I already know – because he doesn't want to be. He's happier working with the rookies, and molding them into whatever shape he deems necessary, for the good of the Family.

I even was in a good enough mood to sing, or rather, warble loudly, and be happy in the knowledge that there was _no one_ around to hear it. In this case, it was one of those sentimental songs a girl would sing in front of her mirror, living in her father's house. For me, it was an easy song to sing...and I probably did look like a fairly easy mark to anyone who saw me. Not that I cared – I had weapons on hand, just in case.

And I had magicka – I'd been practicing dabbling in the different schools –though I hadn't swallowed pride enough yet to ask M'raaj Dar to teach me any of the more advanced spells he claimed to sell.

He _had_ watched his mouth while Lucien had been present.

--S--

I had been out for several hours when I was finally found. Tel and Gogron were walking through the grass, Gogron carrying a picnic basket, dressed in normal clothes. Telaendril looked as she always did, cool and composed in a teal dress that looked expensive.

"Sari?" Gogron squinted. His distance vision is a little better than Teinaava's but not by much.

"Of course it is," Tel chuckled, and waved at me as I got up.

I had been sitting, almost hidden by the grass, singing softly as I chained clover. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was not eager to get back to the Sanctuary, and I had been getting bored.

"Hey," I dropped the chain as I rose. "Out for lunch?" It was obvious they were, but what else was I supposed to say?

"Yes – you?" Tel asked.

"Just needed some space," I said and shrugged.

Tel smiled. "Plenty of that here –care to join us?"

I considered. "No, no thanks," I shrugged and wandered off, back towards Cheydinhal.

--S--

The Sanctuary was empty except for Lucien and Vicente, who were standing in the common room as I came in, with my basket over my arm.

They both looked over when I entered, but didn't ask where I'd been or what I was doing.

I put the ingredients I had harvested away in the workroom cupboard.

Tag was there. He – I think of the dark guardians as 'he' - held up his boney thumb and forefinger, then clattered his finger bones against his wrist and I smiled. You learn to decode what they're on about.

"Yes, thank you Tag," I smiled and Tag clattered his teeth and continued to shuffle on his rounds. He had been saying that Lucien –the 'L' – was leaving.

"And that," Lucien said with a highly sinister catlike smile, as he flung his cloak around him with a flourish, "will be that. Vicente, Sarielle." He didn't wait for us to respond, but flopped his hood over his head, the cloak he was wearing sweeping impressively as he turned on his heel and then vanished up the ladder. He was looking better after two days stuck down here with nothing to do but relax – he didn't look as tried, and he had finally shaved.

I waited until his cloak hem vanished and the door in the well clanged shut. The well is well-hidden, and I was sure he'd be invisible, or under a chameleon spell long before anyone had the opportunity to see him. It was, I reflected with a smirk, a rather theatrical thing to do: sweeping around like that.

"What is it?" Vicente asked mildly, as I continued to grin.

Thinking over again, I came to the inevitable conclusion that Lucien take the dark-creepy assassin image a little too seriously. Because really - black trousers, black boots, black shirt _and_ a black vest? Doesn't the man know a _thing _about _color_? I mean, we do _dye _our cloth red now. And blue. Even green.

I sighed and chuckled. "Lucien takes that whole 'dark and creepy assassin' look a little too seriously…doesn't he?" It's only us, after all. Who's here to impress?

Vicente sighed and I immediately knew I had just made some kind of gaffe of ignorance. Well, I suppose it was gaffe of ignorance. "In my office, please."

"Am I in trouble?" I asked nervously, immediately on my guard. I thought it a clever joke, but apparently not…

"No, Sarielle. Though once again you illuminate that you have completely missed the point," Vicente said as he settled back comfortably in his chair. His tone indicated he only meant to clear up the matter, so I wouldn't repeat my mistake later on. With a bigger audience, no less – for which I was very grateful, if a little cautious.

"Which point is that?" I scowled. I didn't _feel_ like I had missed any points…it's true about Lucien being all creepy and intimidating.

"The Family is in a business, Sarielle."

"Yes…I know that..." I scowled further. Vicente was giving me the 'professor Vicente' look that I am sure I will come to hate. It's too reminiscent of one of the Mage's Guild muckety-mucks…except it differs in that Vicente really means well.

"You understand the power of impression, or perception, I should say, do you not?" Vicente chuckled when I continued to glower at him. His tone had not been sarcastic, merely making sure I did have a concept of 'the power of perception'.

That was one thing I learned from my parents: perception is a personal truth. You can make people believe whatever you want in regards to yourself, with the proper perception.

And a little Telvanni bugmusk.

Or in my case – because bugmusk is expensive to import – a well-placed charm spell or two.

"I am saying," he continued placidly, "that when a Speaker appears before someone who wishes to take out a contract, it is in our best interests that said Speaker appear…to fill the general idea of what an assassin _should_ look like. And it is good for them to be in the constant habit of appearing as such—it disarms others. The assassin doesn't need to get their persona together at the drop of a hat - it's already prepared. And it is whatever they want, or _need_, it to be. The idea is to blend in, or to stand out – and to know which is appropriate or necessary. It's the mark of a skilled assassin—high caliber acting skills," Vicente looked at me thoughtfully. "Even you can't argue that such an approach is less intimidating to outsiders. To pander to their expectations, I mean."

"Less intimidating? You call that…" I motioned to the door and made a pantomime of throwing a hood over my head and glowering impressively, shoulders hunched in what should have been a comical impression, "_less intimidating_?"

I remembered back to my two meetings with Lucien, before I was Family. He had been _very_ intimidating, and I had learned only recently that there was no _effort_ put into what I had called 'intimidating'.

But…hadn't one of my first thoughts been that he looked _exactly_ as an assassin should? Dark clothes, a sort of sinister grace, and excellent people skills? I hadn't even considered what the other side of his work persona would be like – I simply accepted that he was an assassin, and probably a good one.

I know better now, of course. There is no 'probably' to it. You don't get where he is by being a foul-up.

Vicente nodded, as if he could see my thought processes working. "Yes – because he _looks_ like the popular image of an assassin: dark robes, cold demeanor, sinister ambiance…" Vicente waved. "People would be more unnerved if, say...an aristocrat walked in, announced himself as Speaker and got down to business. This way, they have a psychological cushion, something that's easier to accept. That assassins _look_ like the so-called 'bad guys'. Not like your average citizen just trying to make a living. And it becomes a part of who you are, Sarielle," Vicente said. He got to his feet and I sat down, taking the lesson far more gracefully now that I understood better what I had missed before.

I feel that there is a _big _difference between playing a persona and being overdramatic. But I get the sense Vicente's well aware of it too, and he's masking one lesson over another other.

Vicente took my sitting down as a cue to continue his instruction as a proper lesson, pacing as he spoke, gesturing with his hands as he did so. He only 'talks' with his hands when he's explaining complex subjects. "Even the way we are contacted and contracted is _strictly_ governed by ritual and prescribed action. It does take being 'dark and creepy' to a higher level – and with good reason."

I looked away, starting to feel that the comment – which had been _mostly_ meant as a _joke_, for crying out loud - was being raked unmercifully over the coals. On the other hand, the insight Vicente was providing…well, it's _interesting _to say the least.

"It would not be difficult, otherwise, to convey the wish to murder someone. But if people _knew_ that, if we played by such rules, we'd be taking out contacts for every angry teenager, every hot temper that got riled up. There would be no _dignity_ in our work," he sighed and shook his head ruefully, the irony of an assassins' guild having consideration for the types of jobs they took was a little ironic. Choosy assassins. "Contrary to popular belief, we take pride in our craft, conducting ourselves, in the main, with dignity and honor. Aside from professional pride, that doesn't begin to cover the messes we would be forced to deal with otherwise. Clients backing out, the 'I didn't really mean it' type arguments…no, it would never do. It would be very bad for business. So as you can see – there is a very practical aspect to 'dark and creepy' being taken seriously," Vicente finished quietly.

I chewed this over, noting that Vicente is a brilliant orator. I don't know if part of this was what I needed to hear, or if this was the honest truth, but at that point it mattered little. He'd illuminated his point.

Brilliantly.

Dark and creepy is the way we are perceived, and it's best to get your character in place before you go outside. Even if it means looking vaguely goofy or melodramatic - I can't even imagine Lucien as _goofy_ - before your comrades.

"It is the same with recruiting. You are here, a member of the Family, an assassin in the best sense of the word," Vicente looked at me, and I realized he had come to an important point, far from the original purpose of his lecture. Which was strange, because hadn't we started with my ill-chosen comment, and a discussion of appearances? He'd guided the talk masterfully, and yet I was aware that there was another issue, perhaps a deeper one, lying beneath. A sort of...undertone to the conversation.

When do they teach us _that _trick?

"Why you, Sarielle? Why not the lurker in the Imperial City, who managed to avoid rotting in the Imperial Prison? Why not Rufio – whom you surely know has death on his hands? What made you special? Different?" Vicente asked.

I looked up, my gaze having dropped to my hands, twisted together in my lap. Vicente was standing before me, watching me. He expected an answer. "I…" I pursed my lips and glanced away and considered hard. I knew that if I answered stupidly, I'd disappoint him, and right now that was not something I wanted to do. I looked up again and swallowed, and wet my lips with my tongue before answering. "Because…I had skills other than just having killed someone. I'm an alchemist, a mage…sort of…I have subtlety, adaptability. I don't panic."

I was fishing, that's what I was doing.

Vicente sighed as if in relief, closing his eyes and nodding slowly.

And if he was relieved, it was nothing compared to what I felt. I wondered, vaguely, where this sense of stress had come from. Or maybe it's all in my head, because I value Vicente's counsel, and want to keep his opinion of me high. It wasn't a necessary that he _like_ me, just that he thought well of me as a professional, as a valuable member of the Family.

"Good, I'm glad you see that. It is not an easy lesson you chose today. Of the last four new recruits over whom I had responsibility, you are the first to be ready for it."

I didn't smile, but looked up at Vicente. "Vicente?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't have money riding on me, do you?" I asked bluntly. I was not sure if I was making a joke, I just needed to shatter the uncomfortable mood that was starting to stifle me.

Vicente smiled and shook his head slowly. "I have seen hundreds of assassins pass through these halls, both residents and visitors. Some go on to other Sanctuaries, some die, others drift along in this, the shadowed path that has chosen them, that they, in turn, chose to embrace. Some rise though the ranks and shine like stars in the sky above," he gestured absently with one hand. This time, I didn't think anything of it - he was simply being Vicente, and three hundred years is enough time to find a sense of self-expression no one will argue with. "I pride myself on spotting the talented among the masses."

I was silent. He didn't say anything more on the topic, but I got the gist of what he was saying. He thought I had potential. He wanted to see me reach it. I felt a swell of affection, hope, and confidence rise in my chest.

Vicente walked back over to his desk chair and was sitting comfortably in it, eyes closed, meditative.

"Vee?" I don't know why I addressed him that way – it just seemed the right thing to do.

"Yes?" he didn't open his eyes, and in that moment, I had to wonder if he wasn't tired of being a vampire. Three hundred years…and then some. Watching his students come and go, living out the years of their lives until the job claimed them. Didn't that…wear on him? Bother him, even?

But he was still here…

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but it stalled halfway up my throat and I fell silent, feeling an odd sense of melancholy settling over my shoulders. It was just as palpable as the aura of 'dangerous' that several of the Family project.

Vicente smiled benignly, his eyes still closed. "Sarielle, you're all children when compared to me, and as such will always need mentoring." he added, as if he could see the furrow of my brows.

I am not a child – clichéd as it sounds. And I don't see that any of the others are either. Not even Antoinetta. This isn't a children's business. But…I could see where he was coming from, I suppose.

"All of you – Telaendril, Lucien, Ocheeva," he waved. "But unlike children you do not need coddling, or protection – you're quite capable of protecting yourselves." I brightened a little, and smirked at his rather 'thank goodness for that' expression.

This is one of the few places where it is understood each member can take care of him or herself. We keep an eye on each other when we have an eye to spare, but by and large, we don't need protecting.

"All I can do for my students, is to offer advice, advice from a life far longer than your own. And hope that you are mature enough to take it, or at least weigh it," Vicente gave a mild smile. "There – I've gone and waxed nostalgic."

"No…" I shook my head. Well, he had, but I didn't mind. "I think I understand what I missed before. Thank you. It's all about perception, isn't it? Like how Antoinetta and I can make ourselves look helpless. But we're not." I knew all about _seeming _innocent, but I dislike doing it in front of the others. I don't want to risk losing face.

Vicente nodded, coming out of his reverie. I knew there was a lot he had not said, it hung unspoken and unknown in the air like a cloud of perfume after the owner has left the room. Part of me wondered why or how I'd managed to trigger such a fit of thoughtful introspection.

Part of me didn't want to know, but I was grateful for the insight.

"You're one of the ones who can rise, Sarielle. But only if you choose to believe it."

"You think?" I looked up, a little surprised.

Vicente sighed and I knew I had disappointed him, had fallen short of whatever mark he had set. He didn't answer the question aloud, but I knew what the answer was...yes. That was exactly what he'd been talking about, confidence - or lack thereof - in my own abilities. "There is a certain amount of theatricality involved when you are the Brotherhood's mouthpiece," Vicente said, back to his tone of lecture, returning to the original topic.

The swift change of topic from my potential to the original lesson was rather startling, and although I listened to what he said, I gleaned - perhaps belatedly – another lesson from this chat. I thought back to when he had switched topics from Lucien's theatricality to my shortcomings.

Am I that transparent?

But on the other hand…this 'new lesson' was interesting. Interesting and intimidating.

That I could go however far in the Brotherhood I wanted…so long as _I_ motivated _myself_ to do so. So long as I didn't hinge my perception of limitations on what others thought of me. Or on garnering approval.

It's a chain, I realized, that I wear. Forged by parents whose approval I could never win, at least not without betraying myself. And it hurt to realize this. It was almost physical pain – mostly behind my eyes, a sort of nasty, low-grade headache.

What hurt my pride the most was I had created this chain, myself...insisted staunchly upon wearing it…and then handed it off to someone else. In my attempts to be true to myself, to refuse to give someone else more power over me than _I_ wanted them to have, I'd handed over the very keys to my soul.

That was _embarrassing_.

It's alright to want to be well thought of…but for me, it's a _necessity_.

And it's a weakness, because I've been going about it _wrong_ almost my whole life.

I bit my lip, but didn't cry.

_That_ was why he'd revealed his thoughts to me. Why we were having this 'conversation', to dislodge this taproot of a problem before it could burrow itself any deeper. He wanted to see his pupils succeed, yes, like all mentors. But in this one's case…she had to lose the chains first. And that always takes time.

Vicente continued, no change in his tone, though he had to have seen the change in my composure. I was glad he ignored it – the wound was open, I didn't need salt rubbed in, or someone to try and patch it up.

Let me lick my wounds in peace. I'll be better off for it. Be better off working through it, getting help only upon request. I learn better that way.

"Sometimes even our operatives find time to contact their marks, to further perpetuate the image they wish to craft, even if it is only the dead who will hear them. Like Gogron – he likes delivering snappy one-liners before he starts the massacre," Vicente's voice smiled. "It is best that you are always perceived – outside the Family – to be what the popular conception of an assassin is. And learning to see yourself in that vein will assist you greatly. Confidence, Sarielle."

I considered, forced myself to think about what Vicente was saying _right now_ rather than what I was trying to cope with.

When I thought of an assassin, images of Vicente and Lucien invariably cropped up.

But what had _I_ thought previously…? Someone cold, vaguely sadistic, the kind who whispers 'shhh' all reassuringly, just before she kills you. _If_ you ever see her…

Well, I could do that.

"Ah," Vicente chuckled. "It's most amusing - I can see the little wheels in your head turning," he twirled a finger indicative of the motion of said wheels.

"Yeah, I know…" I said and forced myself to look up at him.

Vicente was smiling mildly back at me.

"Interesting lesson Vee, thanks," I said a little lamely.

Vicente nodded slowly and I got to my feet.

"How…you sound like you know this really well," I said _very_ lamely.

Vicente smiled, an approving smile, though I didn't understand what he was approving, unless it was my powers of observation under duress. "I was a Speaker, myself, for Anvil. Twice, actually – twenty-five years, each time. I requested the Listener allow me to retire from the post some fifteen years ago. He saw fit to allow it." The way Vicente smiled told me quite plainly that the Listener had not liked to let him go…but had apparently felt he had no other choice.

I nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and left his office.

Vicente in _Anvil_?

What a day.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twelve: Supper

--

Ocheeva had me go with her to do the shopping. Well, I volunteered, seeing is to how I did not want to spend the rest of the day inside. Particularly after being made aware of a particularly limiting character flaw. I also think that, deep down, I wanted to be away from Vicente a bit, so I could further work out my own issues without feeling like I was being watched.

Because when you feel vulnerable, everyone is watching you.

And I didn't care what the residents of Cheydinhal thought. And it was a good chance to work on perceptions, even if it was my usual impersonation of 'a nice girl'.

But the sun was still shining, and that helped my mood a lot, especially because of recent – and impending – weather.

"Vicente says he's ready to try his hand in the kitchen again," Ocheeva rasped as I scowled at the fish she had picked up, and was examining.

Ocheeva and Teinaava liked fish. But from the way Ocheeva was scrutinizing the freshwater stock – to the consternation of the fishmonger, I'm sure – she looked like she mistrusted fish. The truth is, I think, she's just quite a connoisseur – very picky about what she wants in a fish.

Or maybe it was Vicente who was actually picky – it was _his_ culinary endeavor, after all.

I don't know. "Is that bad?" I asked. "Vicente in the kitchen, I mean."

It pays to ask that kind of question: Teinaava will burn _toast_, as I had already found out. He says he likes his toast blackened, but I think he was just trying to cover his gaff. A little blackened is normal – but burnt is burnt, and that stuff was practically inedible – like 'burnt offerings' burnt.

"No, not really," Ocheeva put the fish down and selected another. "In fact, it means good eating – but he's very picky. A perfectionist when it comes to working in the kitchen. Obsessive…mmhmmm…" she continued checking the fish, prodding it gently with a scaly slightly clawed finger.

I smiled – I can empathize, but we usually call it meticulous and precise. "What's he making?"

Vicente is one whose culinary talent I have never heard appraised. Which means he's probably okay, at the very least. Then again, I'll be a bit disappointed if he hasn't learned to cook in how many hundred years of…well…I was going to say 'life' but I guess I should say 'undeath'.

No, that sounds weird…

I'll be a bit disappointed if he hasn't learned to cook in…how many hundred years of life?

Figuratively speaking.

"I have no idea – I probably won't be able to pronounce it. Here," Ocheeva fished in the folds of the long brown robe-like dress she was wearing and produced a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Here - this is Vicente's ingredient list – see what you can do about it, hmm? It'll shorten the trip," she looked around and fiddled with her headscarf, which matched her dress, and was edged with a fine golden border, and then turned back to the fish.

I smiled.

Ocheeva _really_doesn't like being outside during the day, it makes her nervous, hence her eagerness to get back to the Sanctuary. I suppose she must be all right if she's on a mission, or something…but a contract requires a whole different mindset from doing the grocery shopping.

I smiled and nodded and looked at the tidy, spidery letters, that ran along the paper in neat, even rows. I was surprised at how even and regular all Vicente's letters were.

It is true, do you think, that people's handwriting says a lot about them?

I shrugged and continued to read Vicente's scrawl – it was highly legible, as opposed to my own penmanship, which is loopy and the letters tend to look a lot alike - and took the basket Ocheeva had brought specifically for Vicente's ingredients.

By the time I got halfway through the list, I was thoroughly intrigued with whatever Vicente was planning. This was due partly to what I was being asked to find for him, and partly due to the fact that he was exacting in what he wanted for this…culinary endeavor…of his, in a way I never was – not even when I was brewing potions. The man knew exactly what he wanted, how much, and to what degree of whatever it had to be.

It went a little something like this:

_Onion, purple. One. Larger than the average apple._

_Pepper, black. One scoop – whole peppercorns _if _you please. _

He's insanely meticulous – though I could appreciate it and rather enjoyed matching his specifications as closely as possible.

The downside was that the weather was threatening to get rainy and stormy again – dark clouds were boiling up to the east, and by the time Ocheeva and I took our purchases back to the Sanctuary, I could see distant lightning dotting the horizon.

No!

We've had enough rain already! The Sanctuary's going to _flood_ while we're all _asleep_, I just know it.

Okay, I'm exaggerating – the Sanctuary is spelled to be waterproof. It has to be, being underground like it is. If it wasn't we'd all be hip deep in the mud that Lucien wished upon the Listener.

--S--

The Sanctuary was still widely empty, with people enjoying the sun while they still could, and once Vicente was up – early for him – to cook supper, he immediately drafted me to help. I was glad to, and I saw him smirking at the exacting matches of ingredients to his listed wishes, checking everything over before he even considered getting started.

See, this is something I never knew about vampires –they don't just sleep all day. Vicente can be up whenever he wants – he just doesn't like to go out. Apparently, he's getting more and more sensitive to the sun, as he gets older, no matter how well he…well, you know: how well he cares for himself.

Vicente also enjoyed a glass of wine while working in the kitchen –and yes, it was wine, because I had a glass too.

I guess in the more than two centuries he's so far professed to having – I suspect that he's older – you have time to learn to do things. Lots of different things. Still, it's kind of amusing to see a vampire filleting fish with an efficiency one would attribute to peeling potatoes. It was fun to watch the fish seem to peel themselves out of their scales and skin and off their bones.

I think he was enjoying the attention because he certainly had mine. I had to put my knife down just to watch the process. If I hadn't, I'd have slit my hand wide open from being inattentive, I'm sure.

Ocheeva was right, about Vicente making something she couldn't pronounce – all I could tell was that it was probably from High Rock, given the way he said the words –don't ask, I can't even give you an idea of what he actually said. Something with fish in it obviously, but when he said it, it sounded more like 'poison' with a funny accent.

And let me tell you, it's _good_ _eating_.

Well, obviously Vicente didn't eat any, but he sat there smiling and –as he said to me when he caught me with what he called 'your thinking scowl' said that he still enjoyed the smell, and as his sense of smell was somewhat better than a normal person's, it was enough.

But I did detect a rather wistful expression in his eyes as he watched us chowing down and showering him with comments ranging from appreciative if somewhat muffled 'nmm hmm mmm' and thumbs up (in Gogron's case), to the more dignified remarks from Ocheeva and Teinaava (who as I said, being Argonian, are very fond of fish).

Me? I put my keen mind to remembering how to do it – though Vicente would surely supervise if asked him to, if I ever tried to make it. Who cares if I can't pronounce it? I'll call it 'that fish stuff Vicente made' and people will know what I'm talking about.

"See, Antoinetta? _No_ garlic…" M'raaj Dar said as he licked his chops and then cleaned his whiskers with a napkin several times before starting on a third helping.

I couldn't help but idly wonder how such a scrappy Khajiit could eat so much.

Then again, depending on what it is and who cooked it, I can put away my fair share.

--S--

It rained again, that night, and by the next day we were all miserable again, and huddled in the common room, sulking in silence. I had made a very valiant attempt to go outside, tried to brave the storm, and got my ass kicked by it.

Which was why I was now sitting, shivering, and feeling very gloomy, wrapped in pajamas, dressing gown, blanket off my bed and slippers, as close to the fire as I could get. I was desperate not to catch a cold, and I wasn't sure the hot bath I'd had before bundling up like this, was going to save me. I was feeling the sniffles creeping up on me.

That's what I get for being stupid, but thankfully no one, not even M'raaj Dar – who was sulking in private, in the men's barracks – said this to my face.

That was when Vicente – after giving me a bemused look as I sulked - suggested we swap stories, as I was new and hadn't heard theirs all a hundred times over.

I started, telling the story of how I had lost my temper with my parents, the time that they had called me their mistake – to my face, no less - and I had, in retaliation and spite, slipped them both a love potion.

Imagine the shock and horror when they woke up in the same bed.

Imagine further, if you will, of how mortified they were, upon remembering the sorts of things that had gone on while _under_ the influence of my alchemical masterpiece. Yeah – my family was pretty dysfunctional – and I was surprised that I laughed along with everyone else.

It's another life. One I won't even claim as mine, if I don't have to…I will keep telling myself that. Maybe, sooner or later, I'll actually believe it. And that's what's important.

I looked around the room at the stunned expressions, and smiled.

It was never traced back to me – though surely they suspected. Regardless, I was packed off on a trip to Skingrad, with my governess as a chaperone, to see the sights. Which was something I had wanted to do in the first place.

In the interests of keeping things simple, I shall relate the stories told that evening as they were related to me.

--Author's notes appended--

The word is 'poisson' which is French for fish.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's notes: As Sarielle stated, this is a transcript of Gogron's story, with interesting pauses for audience commentary.

Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Thirteen: Gogron gro-Bolmog

--

Mm, mmm! Me first! I've got one!

Hn – you're gonna love this!

I grew up in a small village outside Orsinium – ran into a little trouble up there – that's why I left. Took out half the Legion when I went too – bam bam bam. It was great – though, can't say the old homestead was sad to see me go. I had a bit of a reputation.

…don't look at me like that, Tel – you know what I mean…

…uh…ahem. Yeah.

Well, I'm better at getting into trouble than anyone else I know. Got into quite a bit – had a lot of fun getting down here.

Well, I got down to Leyawiin, and was thinking to myself, well, this is a great place for an orc – got kicked out of the fighter's guild down there, too – something about me being tactless.

Well, we're not all Vicente, you know. Come on, you know you're…never mind.

Yeah. So I'm at this bar – it's not there now, so don't bother asking which one…

…_Of course I could read the damn sign_! Come on, you're always pulling that stupid gag…yeah, it's the gag that's stupid…knock it off before I knock you _out_…or I'll never finish the story…

…well, the rain's gotta let up sooner or later - don't worry, Sari.

…you look worried…

Arg. I can't win tonight. You wanna hear this or not?

So I'm at this bar, knocking back a few tankards…a fair few. Okay, I'd had several – and things were just getting good.

There were this mismatched group of scumbags sitting there, and they had this stinkin' Dunmer sitting there with 'em, giving me looks, talking shit about orcs and Orsinium in general. Now, I'm no patriot, but the way _I_ saw it, he was _asking_ for me to rearrange his face.

So I finally turn around and I'm just about to…_discourage_ the hostility when this scrappy little dandy of a guy gets up from the table, walks up to me, and tells me to my face that I'm the dumbest son of a bitch he's ever seen in his _life_ and I want _my_ life to continue, I'll sit my ass down and…

….yes, he _did _say it like that…oh come on Vicente…no…oh, okay, but that was still the gist of it…someone'd think you were _there_…you were? How…never mind, I don't wanna know…

Damn, everyone's a critic…

Anyway, he tells me to sit my ass down – _my_ words – and offers to buy me a beer…something like I didn't need any more, but he felt sorry for me, for trying to pick a fight with the wrong guys.

Well, I didn't like that too much – if I pick a fight, it's with the right guys. I picked it! So he turns to the barkeep and is asking me what I want and I haul off to whale on him.

Or…tried to. See, he wasn't exactly there when my fist was supposed to hit his face.

Didn't even look startled, just stepped back, and kept on stepping back, while his table was glowering and making snide remarks.

I realized, just as I tried to knock him into a wall that his table was talking shit about _him_ as well. Well, that didn't make sense to me, so I look over at the guy and ask him, "Fellah, is that table of assholes over there friends of yours?".

And you know what he says?

"No, not really, just the Khajiit by the bar," so he points out this tough looking Khajiit, who's leaning on the bar, sweet as you please, watching the whole fight. He looks at the guy I'm trying to mash to paste and says "you might want to hurry – your lay-coor's gonna get warm".

No, wait for it, it gets better.

So the guy I'm fighting turned and gives the Khajiit a polite little nod and says, "Nothing worse than that - I'll just be a minute, then. This won't take long."

Well, I think he's good and distracted so I step up and grab him up and throw him across the room.

I snatch that boy up and _zzt_!

And hat sneaky son of a bitch!

He lands like some kind of frigging cougar on the table where his 'not-friends' are sitting, smirks at me and the next thing _I_ know, I'm on the ground with him crouched on my chest, having just landed there, and _I can't move a freaking muscle_! Not _one_ – I can't even blink.

And he's standing there all foppish and 'I can't believe I'm wasting my time with this disgusting show of barbarism' on my chest and telling me that my temper's going to get me into trouble one of these days.

Well, I wanted to show _him_ a little barbarism! But obviously, things weren't really in my favor.  
Yeah –that _was _the first time that things not being in my favor stopped me – you're right, Sari.

And then he steps down off my chest and gives me this look – he's smirking like a man hasn't got a right to smirk unless he's… like the cat that ate the canary!

Anyway, he struts off, drinks his drink, and he, that Khajiit buddy of his, and the table of 'not friends' walk out shortly after. Leaves me _lying_ face-up in the walkway, stiff as a board and just about as useless!

And I'm thinking to myself, little runt, I'm gonna mash him into a bloody smudge if I ever get my ass up off the ground. Well, I'm there of most of the night – the fetching barkeeper just leaves me where I was until I could move again.

Well, I had a few more drinks and then went out and got myself into some good and proper trouble. Turns out, one of the guards I ran into back around Orsinium was there and he recognized me. So we had a scuffle and I set him straight.

Couldn't stay in Leyawiin after that, so I packed up and left –found a place to camp and set up. Figured I'd worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

Well, I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling like I'm being watched, and what the hell?, but there's that little scrappy guy from the bar, sitting on a stump, by a fire _I_ didn't light, wearing this black dress and looking like he owns the world.

Okay – robes…but I was in bad mood, you know?

Well, I was still pretty pissed off – I mean, he did leave me lying on the floor doing imitations of a rug. So we scuffled awhile...well, I took a swing at him, and I wind up lying on the ground doing more imitations of a _rug_ in really short order, only this time I could talk.

And blink, but more importantly talk.

So we insulted each other for a bit, and I finally looked up at him. "Who the hell _are_ you, anyway?"

And the guy smiles at me. "I might be your brother in slaughter," he says all calm like.

Well, he goes on for a bit, and I start to listen because it sounds like he's offering me a job. So I glare at him and ask, "Who've I gotta kill?"

And he just _smiles_ at me, and says in this really creepy voice, "Whoever you're told to. If you can handle taking orders, I have a use for you. Otherwise, you can just lie here, doing imitations of a floorboard until the spell wears off. Maybe get caught by the Imperial Legion – that would be a problem this time, Gogron gro-Bolmog, seeing is how you can't move."

Well, I told him what he could do and he just laughed, like we were friends and I had just made a great joke. "I thought you'd say that, and no, thank you," he says to me, and then he sets this knife on the stump he'd been using.

He tells me if I get tired of being lost in Cyrodiil - or playing rug – and want to make a little money, have a family who can respect my skills and talents…to get to this guy called Cezar Atius. "The Dark Brotherhood requires that the hostilities between the Atius and Sintav families be…rekindled."

"Why?" I ask.

And the guy smiled and shrugged. "Because someone wants it to continue. Cezar Atius, on behalf of the _Sintav_ family," he said slowly, to make sure it sunk in and I'd remember. "You'll find him in the Imperial City. Have fun."

Well, he _disappeared_. And then I could move again…but of course, I couldn't see him to pound him…but I'm not sure I would have...I was kind of curious. So I scratched my head and asked myself out loud – "Who the hell was _that_ supposed to be?"

"Lachance," says his voice, "Not, 'that son of a bitch' or any of its derivatives: Lucien Lachance."

…What do you mean 'what happened', I decided to do it! Didn't have much else going for me – and I wanted to know how that little squirt got the best of me – and he ain't any bigger now and he can _still_ put me on the floor. I'd never had that happen before…got tired of it after a while, and learned to watch where I was swinging my fists.

…Come on, Tel, we're not all you…I'm not sulking…Anyway, I go, I take out this Cezar guy, and half his private army yelling about 'Sintav' and I get the hell out of there. It was a real romp, and Lucien shows up the next night while I'm hiding out and we head back here. Simple as that –I was running missions for Vicente over there within a week.

Hey – if this is a story _swap_ then _I_ get to chose who goes next! Uh…Tel…you do it.

--Author's notes appended --

Gogron means 'liqueur', and the Khajiit is being sarcastic.

Extra points for those who know who was at the 'table of not friends', as well as who the Kjhajiit at the bar are.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter 14: Telaendril of Valenwood

--

Mm, thank you, Gogron. Let's see…well, since Gogron told his introduction of the Family, I suppose I shall share mine. It's as good a place to start as any – and I think Sarielle will enjoy it.

I was born in distant Valenwood, in Silvenar, but I lived in Falinesti for many decades.

Truth be told, I miss the towering elms of the forests there…I was banished, for deeds I don't care to discuss.

This is my home now – and while Lucien does figure into the story, it's not quite what you'll be expecting. It all begins with my banishment, you see. I came here, and joined up with a band of mercenaries. They were tactless, and fools, but that made them easy to control, to manipulate. I was the unofficial brains of the operation, and we were very successful in our work – mostly smuggling.

Well, my father was rather…influential, back home, and he didn't much like my dragging the family name through the mud.

Oh, yes, I was fully aware that it would annoy the old fetcher - I did it on purpose. Banish _me_? He was a fool to think he could just get rid of me that way. Honestly.

Well, not so much a fool because he eventually realized it. What I didn't realize was that he had the stones to contract the Dark Brotherhood to try and kill me.

The troupe I travelled with moved around a lot - it's harder to hit a moving target, as we all here know very well.

Well, if you don't know, summoning the Dark Brotherhood for a contract takes some guts in and of itself. It's a rather nasty bit of ritual work, and I was silly to underestimate my dear father. Well, I'm still here, so I can't complain too loudly.

It took them a while to catch up with us, you see – because even if I didn't know I was being hunted by the Dark Brotherhood, I assumed was being hunted by everyone else. Smuggling is illegal, you know, and we were moving items of a…questionable nature.

It was about a week after a particularly lucrative run when my assassin caught up with me. Caught me on the way to see a close friend of mine on the Cyrodiilic side of the border.

Well, I got to the house and what do I see? Javier, sitting in an armchair, facing the door.

And behind him is this young human boy – well, a man by human standards, I suppose. You humans…you live and die so quickly…

Anyway. I look from Javier to this assassin, and close the door behind me. "Well, what's all this, Javier? Did you go picking the wrong enemies?" I asked, though I kept my eye on the assassin.

This assassin, was of course, Lucien –I see no reason to beat about the bush.

Well, Javier obviously didn't say anything back, being a little too close to an assassin with a knife.

"Hardly," says Lucien politely, eyeing me carefully, watching for me to reach for a weapon. "It's just that _he_ picked the wrong _friends_. He could have saved himself a lot of trouble, if he'd simply given you up," and he slit Javier's throat, just like that.

"Now, that was sloppy of you," I say, watching Javier flop forward. It might have been painful to watch if we'd been…involved.

"Hardly – its operational prudence," says Lucien – and answer I liked, truth be told. So Lucien reaches calmly into his belt and produces a small scroll of paper. "I have a message, for Mistress Telaendril, from Master Thorindir of Valenwood. Shall I read it, or shall I get straight to business?"

Well, Thorindir, of course, was my dear father.

I smiled – my little assassin was not taking this as seriously as perhaps he should have – or so it seemed to me. Well, my father does like to go on –always lecturing, always having to have the last word. I don't know why it surprised me that he sent a note with his assassin, like he was some sort of errand boy. "Doesn't it chafe you, to be treated as that fool's errand boy?" I asked.

"Hardly," he said, simply, "this is going to end the same way, whether I play courier or not. I don't see why he's bothering, but, a client is a client."

I smiled. "Well, then, read the ramblings. There's no need to be hasty about all this."

Lucien didn't look down at the paper, but continued watching me. "_To dearest Telaendril, I have only this to say_," he recited, and I had to admit, even then, that it was wise of him to have memorized the missive. If he'd looked away, I'd have been out of there too quickly. "_Good night, and good riddance_."

"Charming," I said and smiled. "So – now what?"

Lucien put the scroll back in his belt and smiled. "And now it's down to business."

"Ah, I thought we might hit that snag, my lad."

"I see no complication, madam."

I smiled. "You wouldn't," I tumbled to one side, and almost was taken out by a fireball Lucien launched almost in the moment I tried to dart to the left. I popped up and blocked the next one.

I might not be a trained mage, but I am no stranger to alteration, and can shield myself so that a human with less than two score years to his credit can't breech it – Lucien was not a Speaker at this time. Of course, this was just buying time for me to get to my knife.

I had to admit even then, for being so young he was remarkably skilled – my bad luck was twofold.

Firstly, it was for no reason that he calls himself 'Lachance'.

Secondly, there is a reason I never adopted any such foolish name – he managed to get me distracted sufficiently to trip over Javier's corpse, which had been knocked out of the chair when the chair had been knocked over.

It could have gone very badly for me, you know, except that I still had a magical shield and still had my knife, even if I was for the moment, in disarray. He tried very hard to shove that wicked blade of his through my heart, but I fought back very hard, determined he should not.

I managed to gain the use of my knife hand.

To this day, Lucien has a very nasty scar across his left shoulder – and he swears he knows when it's going to rain, because it still aches. Well, I wasn't about to stand around and wait for him to recover – I bolted like a startled deer. I didn't even go back to my band of mercenaries – they'd delay Lucien, but they wouldn't stop him.

I found out later why I had been so fortunate – and Lucien learned a valuable lesson.

You don't go after a 'mer with three or four times your years – at the very least –when you are not up to full strength. And at the time, he was not – illness, or something, I later found. He was just getting back on his feet, and was a little bit overconfident. Though, if I had been a little bit less skilled, it would have been plain confidence. And warranted.

With the Brotherhood trailing me –and I assumed Lucien's pride would be smarting from the fact that I escaped with my life, leaving him injured in a house with a dead body, just waiting to be scooped up by local law enforcement.

I saw that I had two options.

One: I could disappear again. Though I did not expect that sort of solution to last very long. Assassins are nothing if not persistent.

Two: I could make the contract go away. I wasn't for certain that this would work, but considering my position, it was the better of the two choices.

And sending my dear father ahead of me into the Void would have mollified me a little.

--S--

He was very surprised when I turned up the next night. Lucien might have had a chance at killing me, but Thorindir did not – it was over rather quickly. I should have liked to have made it last a little longer.

I didn't linger – I felt it…unwise.

So I returned to Cyrodiil and slept uneasy, knife at the ready, bow by my bed.

--S--

Lucien caught up with me three nights later, while I was at a small inn, having my evening meal.

He came in and sat down across from me, scowling. "I've went to great trouble to honor this contract to kill you, Telaendril," he said to me, frowning, but speaking very softly. "And I am ill of temper."

"Then perhaps you should show maturity beyond your years," I advised, "and walk away. Thorindir is quite dead. Whatever gold he's promised your little guild isn't going to avail either of you. And quite frankly, I grow tired of being hunted by you. You had the advantage with Javier. But not so tonight," it was a bluff, but I happen to be quite good at maintaining a bluff.

"I would argue that. But let me who you the extent of maturity: you have two options. You can either walk out of here, a member of the Dark Brotherhood. Or I kill you where you sit, walk away, and no one will be the wiser."

"Oh? I'm interested in how you would do that."

"It's in the poison you just drank, madam. The bartender here happens to be an acquaintance of mine – he slipped it to you, when I asked him to, upon seeing you stop here for the evening. Of course, he didn't know what it was. Now, I have here," he produced a little bottle, "the antidote. I despise crude methodology, but…" he shrugged.

"…but you are ill of temper," I finished with a smile. I felt my skin start to grow warm, and my mouth begin to parch. "Tell me your name boy."

He didn't like this. "Madam, I have served for nearly eight years already."

I didn't voice my surprise at this. "Ah, but you have no more than thirty winters. Not even, unless my eyes cheat me," I said. "And I have nearly three times that – so do not argue with me, boy. You _will_ lose."

"Continue stalling, and you'll be dead, and it will scarcely matter. That would be a greater loss, don't you agree?"

"I thought your group," I said delicately, "sent higher-ups to recruit?" Now, I was not sure of this, I was guessing. Lucien didn't strike me as being particularly high up in the world - his manners were far too well-polished. You'll noticed he's learning to loosen up a bit.

"Ah, but should you choose not to join, I must honor my contract," Lucien smiled. "Is it really such a bad proposition? You've already proved yourself quite…efficient. And cunning."

I smiled. "Keep practicing, my boy, and you'll be able to flatter just about any lady into doing anything you want," I looked at him here, and he smirked back at me. I was beginning to feel my guts cramping up, and I knew I must be getting close to that point beyond which I would die in a very ugly manner. "So, give me your name."

"Lucien. Lucien Lachance."

"Yes, you are, aren't you?" I asked, and Lucien shrugged.

"You have about a minute left before the poison is irreversible. May I press you for an answer?"

I laughed, and patted his hands, which rested folded on the table. "Go find your superior, lad."

Lucien raised a hand and motioned, and the then-speaker for Cheydinhal drifted over, and they swapped places.

As it turns out the poison was a ruse – any ill-effects I'd been feeling were entirely my own doing. The sneaky little fetcher…but I meant it fondly, and still do to this day. It was quite an apprentice you had, Vicente.

--Author's notes appended --

Telaendril's comment 'you are, aren't you' is referencing the fact that Lachance is literally 'the luck', for those who don't know.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. I've taken some license with Shadowmere – I see her as a sort of...weird Fresian.

--

Chapter 15: Antoinetta Marie

--

The snow was falling heavily…so very heavily. The cold was so intense I could no longer feel it, except in my joints – a terrible, aching, biting pain that wracked me with shivers. And I was tired – so very tired…

I don't know _when_ exactly. It was late in the year, Chorrol gets less snow than Bruma. Not that it makes much difference when the snow is falling on _you_.

I was without strength, finally certain that now was the time, standing upon the brink of death, that I would not crawl back, claw back, fight back to life and warmth. My mind moved slowly, like a runner in sodden robes, weighted down, unable to sprint, to keep up with the other competitors, falling slowly behind, tasting bitter defeat.

I don't know even to this day whether I was glad to see the end of the race…or saddened that life had been so cruel, so short.

I must have fallen asleep – which would have sealed my doom, except that that night, for the first time in many, many nights, Fortune truly smiled upon me. I was lying where I had curled up – in a gutter towards the edge of town, near the walls. Hiding. The guards…they don't come back there often. They'd get mud on their boots…and sometimes…sometimes bad thing happen to them.

…Use your imagination….

I thought it was cold finally starting to feel warm, as I passed from life to death, and then I realized, very slowly, that it wasn't. I was not sure whether to be disappointed, as the warmth moved to my half-frozen cheek. A hand. I tried to panic – I could not see this situation ending well for me…

"Shh, shh shh shh," I couldn't tell from the whispered shushing whether my companion – and I use the term in lieu of anything more accurate – was male or female, man or mer.

I forced my frozen lashes to allow my eyes to open and found that my visitor was in fact, a man. But that was the last thing on my mind – what concerned me were the long black robes, and the hood – he was dressed in similar fashion to a priest, but there was something sinister in the air around him – a sort of deepened chill than the winter could have ever produced. A fashion, or sense of presence I did not recognize, had never seen before. I could tell little as I gaped, shaking from fear now, rather than cold, at the color-leeched visage.

…Angular features, proud, almost aristocratic, where the feeble light struck them. Maybe that was why I thought he was some sort of priest…though I've never had a priest bother with me…not after a while. I remember his eyes, though – he was under a nighteye spell, you can always tell, the eye goes shockingly blue – the same shade of blue in which you will see…and the colored part goes black, like a pit. It's a rather ghastly effect in a lighted place, but here, where color was mostly drained it wasn't half so shocking.

My eyes drifted to the amulet he was wearing, hanging just below the pin of his cowl and cloak. It glowed most sinister, drinking in light and pouring it back out, the jewel was blue…that strange nighteye blue, almost. "Are you…here to kill me?" I rasped, not sure whether to hope for quick death, or to let fear finish me off first.

Even if I had never seen this mode of dress…I was quickly sure this was no priest. Because everyone has heard whispers of assassins in black robes…with sharp knives and no mercy, no hearts. It was not as if he had to wait too long, I thought, for the chill to do his job for him.

But he smiled – or so I gathered from the mildly amused scoff he gave, but his eyes never left my face. "Kill you? Not at all, dear child."

It's a very silly thing to ask, particularly if you _know_ you're being hunted.

But when he said it to _me_, it was in a tone of deep affection, a tone I was completely unfamiliar with. I looked up from the amulet he was wearing to examine his expression. His expression was…was oddly benign. He had pulled his hood back some so I could better see to whom I was speaking. He looked…kindly, almost. He looked up and clicked his tongue and then smiled properly. It even reached his spell-affected eyes.

"I am not often in the business of saving lives," he said quite frankly as a soft crunching sound approached. "But we of the Family take care of our own – and for you, my dear, there is a place in our Family."

I blinked. "I have none…" the cold was making me stupid.

"Perhaps not as of this exact moment," he helped me sit up and I continued to shake. Nice people make me nervous. "But ours shall have you – it is that simple," he appended this because I had cast a look of confusion. He reached up and knocked snow gently out of my hair and off my shoulders, as if dusting off something that never should have gotten dusty at all.

I was sure I was dying – must have been having some kind of delusion.

"You sleep soundly for a killer," he smiled when my eyes bugged and touched my arm. "That last one was quite…a stunning display. I was sure his family would never get the blood out of the walls. But that aunt – that was amusing…right into the soup," he chuckled softly and patted my shoulder as if to say 'excellently done'.

I felt my expression go cold. "He had it coming," by the effect was ruined by my chattering teeth. As for the aunt..well, he was right. It was amusing, and yes, face first into her split pea.

"I don't doubt it," my visitor said courteously.

"What do you want from me?" I asked finally.

He was right – if they did get all the blood out of the wood, I would be surprised. But, as I said, he had it coming.

"Do you know who I am, child?"

I looked at his amulet again. "I know what you are…assassin," it was not a curse, aspersion, or insult. it was like saying 'you're the tailor' or 'you're the baker'. It was simply a profession.

"Close enough," he said, looking bemused. "As for what I want from you…I want you to turn those pretty white hands to the art to which they are best suited: assassination. Murder, to use the common word," his expression and tone indicated he felt that the latter was a term for the uneducated. "In return, I offer you honorable employment, and family."

I don't know how long I was silent. The crunching noise turned out to be his horse - a great black creature that resonated malice and darkness as much or more than her rider. There was something about this horse…she stood swishing her goatlike tail and pawing the ground almost silently.

I looked at my visitor. "What do I…have to do?"

"Do? Nothing as yet," he smiled as if I had just said 'yes'. I suppose I had. "You may – in future – apply yourself to contracts for the removal of pests and problems…that is of course, if you are willing."

"What…?" I managed a grim smile. "No proof of allegiance? No entrance exam?"

"My dear," my visitor said with great dignity. "You may not be aware, but you are difficult to _track_, and as I have already said, we are impressed with the last job you did. What was it he did to offend you? A little too rough in shoving you out of your way? A few minor insults?"

This was true. A minor even to cap of a bad week. I set my jaw. "I don't care," I said stolidly.

"And that is why the entrance exam is being foregone, in your case. You don't care. You know that there are sheep and there are wolves. And you know both die, just as easily."

I looked up at him. In my case. An exception…for me? I shifted, feeling my cold limbs protest, and looked up. "Yes."

My visitor smiled and got to his feet, walked over to his horse and returned to flop a heavy cloak about my shoulders.

I admit - I didn't like it when he scooped me up like an armful of laundry, but a moment later he'd put me up on his horse and them climbed on and turned her with a click of tongue and gentle press of boots to her sides. I was surprised – the horse had a remarkably even gait. I hardly jostled at all.

"Then I shall take you home," he sounded exactly as I imagined a brother might sound. I was gradually warming up. "The last place you shall ever need to call home."

"Where's home?" I asked, watching the city move slowly as his horse picked her way languidly forward.

He chuckled. "In Cheydinhal. It is the last home you will ever need, Antoinetta."

I was very ill, by the time we got here. But he stayed nearby. I remember waking, from illness and nightmares to see his shadow nearby. Tel helped…and I was gradually introduced to the family. Not too quickly. That was when I made a promise to myself – to be excellent in my work here. It was…the least that I could do. A duty I bound myself to willingly…you go, Vicente. You have the best stories.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Sixteen: Vicente

--

My induction story is not so interesting – I was inducted into the Dark Brotherhood, into this Sanctuary, some two hundred years ago. I was already a vampire then – and had been living as such for almost a century already. I had…talents…and the Family was willing to overlook my condition, in order to acquire those talents. The names and faces will mean nothing to you – so let me tell you a story to amuse.

Ah, this one will do.

Let me begin by saying that I retired from the post of Speaker for the second time, some fifteen years ago. In truth, it was a year, well, two thirds of a year before I met Lucien. On the night in question, I was returning from a contract and was given a change of instruction by a courier. It is traditional, even in the rules that a Speaker will contact a potential member.

My case is somewhat…unique.

I was to go, said the Listener, and recruit this likely-looking lad, who was hiding out at Weynon Priory, of all places. I was to find him, talk with him, and induct him. And I was given a Blade of Woe…no, Sarielle, not yours. There are several that…float around throughout the centuries. I have seen five since I first came here – but of them, only yours was virgin when presented to you. The rest had been in the hands of members before, and will be again, I am certain.

Easy: I have one, myself. It's shaped dissimilarly to yours, but still bears the legend. I believe the last person to own it was a previous Listener, herself.

Ah, where was I?

Well, I pulled myself together, and I reached Weynon Priory in good time.

If you don't already know, Weynon Priory has ties with the Blades, the Emperor's bodyguards –and it still does today. I rather think that the gentleman in charge – a man by name of Jauffre – rather suspected who I was and who I represented, but that meant he also suspected why the lad in the chapel had requested sanctuary.

"I'm looking for my nephew," I said to Jauffre when I was asked my business, calling late at night as I was.

"Your nephew?" Jauffre asked, surprised.

"Indeed, my sister's son – I had heard he got into more trouble than he could get himself out of, and was hiding here, for sanctuary. I have to come to take him home."

Jauffre eyed me very closely, but finally nodded – I think these strange events were making him nervous, and eager to get the boy off his hands – he could not prove that the boy had done anything wrong, and so could not just serve him up to the Legion. Not in good conscience.

I was glad – I was not much of a mood to have to coerce the Blades to let go of what was, at the time, one above average killer. Particularly as that average killer would hopefully be forged into an assassin proper.

Just because one is recruited young is no guarantee that they will turn out well. In fact, it's unusual for a youngster to turn out so well.

I found Lucien exactly where Jauffre had said he'd be, and asked the Blade for a few moments alone with my nephew, which he allowed.

Lucien was sitting in one of the pews, facing the priest's podium, looking grim, somewhat determined, and very uncomfortable. He was a scrappy little thing at that age. "Well, I see you managed to escape unscathed," said I as I walked in.

He jumped to his feet and turned, his eyes bugging slightly, as I unwrapped my hood and facewrap. "Who are you?" he asked, startled past anything more intelligent.

I stopped some five feet back and answered, "I am Vicente Valtieri, a vampire, a killer, and as far as the priest outside is concerned, your uncle. Which may be closer to the truth than you know, if you've a mind to listen."

"I have no uncles," Lucien said pragmatically.

I could tell, just by looking at him, that here was an intelligent mind, so I sat down on the pew across the aisle. If you have ever been to Weynon Priory, you know that the chapel is very narrow. "There are more ways to get an uncle, than simply by your mother or father having a brother," I said mildly. "I've come to see what you are going to do now. That was a rather nasty bit of business. It could come back for you."

"I know that," he said rather stiffly. "What…do you want?" though I was sure he already knew, and was simply trying to keep his nerves steady…I thought it promising.

…yes, yes I suppose it _does_ sound like someone we know.

I told him, and within ten minutes, we were leaving. I thanked the Blades for looking after my nephew, and Lucien and I came back here, to Cheydinhal. Lucien was only fifteen at the time…

…yes, that does answer a few questions, doesn't it?

But by the time he was eighteen, he was showing remarkable promise. I was pleased to have found so apt a pupil, and fortunately enough for me, he continued to heed my counsel long after he really needed to be mentored closely. I had done so up until he was a little more grown-up, in the manner that the Brotherhood cares for its occasional very young members.

--S--

That established, the story I will relate takes place in Anvil – oh, Sari, I think you'll like this one. We were at a tavern and an inn, which is no longer standing…

I don't know, Antoinetta. Perhaps the ambience? Or maybe taverns are just a good place for a fight to break out? Idiots and alcohol do _not _mix well…

Sigh. I don't _care_ if _alcohol_ mixes well…

We were at a tavern, he was eighteen – just turned. As a vampire, when on long trips, I usually take someone with me – it pays to have eyes out in the daylight. In this case, it was Lucien.

We had stopped at this inn for information gathering purposes. I set Lucien to watch my back, keep his ears open, and keep an eye on the door while I had a chat with one of my then contacts, a lady by name of Valerian. I had just gotten the information from her that I needed when I heard a fight starting to break out – or rather, the drunken slurred obscenities and death-threats that precipitate a fight.

And who do I see, but Lucien – my usually able apprentice – sprinting headlong into trouble.

I looked around the room – he's looking at seven or eight of the scruffiest thugs you can imagine, and is about to get his head handed back to him. An assassin may be good, but always remember that _most_ of us have element of surprise, and we do not generally face down an army.

With exception of Gogron, of course, who has and needs no 'sense of the odds'.

Lucien was planning to take on all these fellows. With his bare hands, or possibly whatever knife he had with him – though from what I could see, he was opting for bare hands.

Now, it did not take an archmage to figure out what was going on here, particularly when I realized that the spectator closest to the fight was a rather buxom, blonde tavern girl, of whom I knew little, but of whose type I knew fairly well.

"Is he with you?" Valerian asked, looking at Lucien, mildly amused.

"Unfortunately…." I answered. "Tell the blonde to keep her hooks out of my apprentice, will you?"

"What are _you_ going to do, Vicente?" Valerian asked. "Do you want some help?"

I shrugged here and Valerian chuckled. "_I_ am going to a stop this tavern from going up in flames," I said and walked over to where Lucien was making a few well-chosen – or perhaps badly-chosen - comments.

"I thought I told you to watch the door," I said mildly, stepping up to him.

"I was," Lucien said, emphatically. "This lot was blocking it."

"Lucien, you know perfectly well that I can _see_ what my apprentices are thinking," I said quietly, and he looked mildly sheepish, but totally unrepentant, "and if this winds up having anything to do with that blonde over there...I'm going to be severely disappointed. I said watch the _door_."

Lucien looked amused and guilty and then shrugged.

I chuckled – at least he's honest, so far as an assassin can safely be - and turned. "Just follow my lead, or this is going to get _very_ ugly," I said quietly and Lucien smirked and nodded. "Gentlemen," though they clearly were nothing of the sort, for within minutes _I_ had lost patience with them. And you know how that is: where I had gone in to try and diffuse the situation, I found I no longer cared about fights or damages.

Well, Lucien was pleased that I'd started the fight – and even more so when Valerian jumped in. You see, Valerian was a redhead, in the truest sense of the word –temper like a firecracker, and just as beautiful.

It was actually Valerian who set the establishment on fire – though I rather think that was more by design and less by accident. So, still wrangling with these thugs, the three of us get out of the burning tavern, and out into the streets of Anvil…

I _thought_ you might remember that.

Well, the three of us wound up sitting by the old oak near the center of town.

"Well, Vicente," Lucien says to me, grinning, "I guess it wasn't about the blonde."

Well, I had quite forgotten by this time, or rather, had not been thinking about that, being more concerned with flying fists and broken bottles, and I chuckled. "I guess not," I agreed.

"And who'd you say this lad was?" Valerian asked, looking past me at Lucien.

"His apprentice, madam," Lucien says very courteously.

"Hn," Valerian smiled, and nodded approvingly.

"And you are?" Lucien asked courteously, charmingly as he could.

Valerian had that effect on men in general. "One of Vicente's friends," she smirked, shrugging. It did not take her long to convince Lucien she was out of his league.

Yes – well. Valerian actually left Cyrodiil not long after this. She went back to Vvardenfell, and is probably still there…did I not say she was a dunmer lady? Hmm, well, now you know.

…House affiliation? Telvanni I _think_…but I also never asked her.

Oh, no, no, never Morag Tong. Just as she was never one of us. Valerian was simply a very bright, opportunistic young lady, who knew the value of information. That was her real business, you know – being in the business of information. I also rather suspect she was a member of the thieves' guild for a while, but I couldn't prove it, not choosing to look into it too far.

It was a wonderful _business_ relationship, Antoinetta. I shall say _nothing_ further.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Seventeen: Courier

--

Ocheeva, Teinaava and M'raaj Dar all did not tell stories.

Ocheeva and Teinaava said that they could not discuss their past, mostly, because the laws governing the Shadowscales prevented it. We were not only outsiders, but a lot of what they had done needed to be kept quiet to being with.

M'raaj Dar didn't participate for obvious reasons.

However, it was here that Vicente showed another of his collection of hobbies. He left the common room and returned shortly with a guitar, which he propped across his knees as he sat in his chair and began to play quietly. It was fun to watch, and I wound up humming along, curled up happily in my chair, getting drowsier and drowsier from being warm.

"Oh look –Sari's dropping off!" Gogron teased some indeterminate time later.

I opened one eye and glowered at him, but I yawned. Well, he's right. I got up and waved as I finished yawning, and turned in.

I was tired. I was also starting to ache.

Damn bad weather – I can't believe I'm getting sick.

--S--

I didn't get sick. I felt just fine when I woke up.

Well, needless to say after all the stories we'd swapped – the one's I've related here, and a good deal more – I was jokingly no longer so sure that all the food was safe, if I wasn't there to help prepare it. And while I accepted there was no point to poisoning _me_, in our own home –which would be tacky beyond belief - I made up my mind to go back to the Imperial City and track down that enchanted ring: the one that revealed the presence of poison.

You never know, when you need to know that you're about to make a fatal error.

--S--

I awoke very early the next morning – partly because I had gotten my sleep out, partly because Antoinetta had another of her really bad nightmares. Even after I've been here this long, I'm still not used to having other people in the same room as me – and while Telaendril might have mastered sleeping through Antoinetta's nightmares, I had not. I woke Antoinetta, and she slipped quickly back to sleep, the dream interrupted, her sleep evening out again.

It was pitiable, that sleep afforded her little rest. That was when I made a determination.

It was time I put some effort into alchemy not geared towards causing harm.

I got up and dressed, and checked the weather outside. It had stopped raining – and the moons were out, sending silver facets onto the water beaded on the grass and plants. But as I hoped, there was a heady drift of scent from outside the window.

I returned inside and gathered a basket, and a pair of scissors from the workroom, leaving word with Shuffles that I was going out, and that I would be back before too long.

The rosebushes outside had finally begun to let their somewhat battered blossoms open, and those were what was creating the heady smell. Rose petals are a key component in most love potions, but they also have other purposes.

After I had collected a fair amount I slipped out of the city. My rounds the previous day had given me a good idea where I needed to look for herbs, and I found fresh lavender, and a small clutch of violets – among other things - hiding near a rock.

It was here, after awhile, that I felt the back of my neck prickle. I didn't go for my knife, but rather gripped my closed scissors below the handle, ready to improvise. It was a few minutes before I cast a detect life spell and began to look about.

It was not until I had turned full circle that I found the person watching me – far closer than I anticipated. I didn't panic, I gave a startled 'eep', for it was dark, and I had gotten to feeling very nervous, but I also realized that I didn't need the weapon.

The horse snorted beneath her rider, pawing the ground and lashing a goatlike tail, glowering at me malevolently.

I've heard a story about a black horse with a goatlike tail, and a malevolent aura. It was really like the anti-unicorn – though sturdier, proud, with feathers curling down from her hocks and knees. Even the way she moved radiated a sense of pride and dignity, so much so that I lowered my makeshift weapon just to watch her progress through the grass.

It was like seeing a mythological creature in the flesh – a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"How fortuitous. You've saved me a trip."

"Oh…" the spell of the red-eyed horse and my own unease shattered and vanished, to be replaced by mild annoyance. "_Dammit_ Lucien…Speaker…whatever…" I choked on relief and statement as I recognized Lucien by voice alone, and lowered my scissors the rest of the way. I no doubt would have sunk them into a true threat before he realized I meant him harm. "Didn't Vicente ever tell you not to sneak up on girls like that? We _don't_ like it!" I was still shaking very slightly from adrenaline.

"I'm certain he has, at one time or another," Lucien answered blandly and walked the horse forward and looked at the basket on my arm. "Don't tell me you've gone and emptied the cupboard again," his tone indicated he was being facetious.

"No, I've not, this is for Antoinetta," I said calmly.

Lucien picked up on the fact that he had genuinely given me a scare, whatever his intention and slipped down off his horse. I could see how he might have thought he was being very obvious in his approach, even if it had not worked.

"What is she?" I asked without thinking, looking at the horse.

Lucien looked back over his shoulder and smiled, and reached up, cupping the horse jaw in one and smiling fondly at her. The horse walked forward a few paces to rest her jaw against his shoulder. "Her name is Shadowmere," he said. "Magnificent, isn't she?"

Shadowmere whickered softly and remained where she was, though she was watching me.

"Absolutely," I agreed with a nod.

I love horses, but this one was a little…daunting. And great for the 'scary assassin' image, I might add.

"May I inquire?" Lucien nodded at my basket.

"Only if I may inquire back: what are you doing here?"

Someone said Lucien's not often at the Sanctuary, but that doesn't really seem to be true. Unless they mean 'not as often as the rest of us', in which case the statement remains accurate.

"Looking for a courier – which in this case is you," he said easily.

I gave him a mildly incredulous look. Then I realized why he was smirking at me – he would say nothing until I told him what I was up to. "Oh, I'm just going to see if I can't do something to help Antoinetta's nightmares. Help her sleep a little easier," I shrugged. Everyone knows about Antoinetta's nightmares.

Lucien smiled. "That's good. A potion?"

"A pillow," I corrected and handed over the basket.

One alchemist to another, he might even have suggestions – everyone who loves the subject and practices it tweaks their potions subtly. So you can have three potions of regeneration, and they'll all be a little different, and probably affect a patient a little differently.

He took it and sifted through the contents, stirring up a faint cloud of the scents that had been lying fairly dormant until then. "Interesting approach" he said and pulled one of the lavender sprigs and twirled it in his hand.

"It works," I shrugged and took the basket back when he held it out.

"Well, I wish you luck with that…"

I smirked and he closed his eyes as if he couldn't believe he'd just said that. "Okay. You said you needed a courier – what for?" I asked, still grinning.

"I'm on business of the 'hurry your ass up, says the Listener' kind," Lucien said blithely, but I didn't quite believe he was that nonchalant about it. "I need you to take this," he produced a white envelope that had something in it and handed it to me. The envelope was sealed on the back –I couldn't make out the seal in the bad light, but I looked up attentively.

I didn't mind being sent as a gofer, I really didn't.

"You need to go to the Imperial City, find Elrick – he'll probably be at the King and Queen Tavern. He's waiting for that," Lucien motioned.

"I'll be there," I said simply. I could feel that there was a spell in the seal of the envelope, and I was fairly sure I knew what it was: it would prevent _me_ or anyone else from easily opening it. With the obvious exception of Elrick.

"Good – enjoy the trip."

There was something in his tone when he said is that made me smile suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Aside from the fact that you were ready to chew the furniture after only two days of confinement? Call it a hunch. I figured you could use a little exercise," Lucien said, his tone rather good humored. Previously, I might have thought he was having a laugh at me, but, and maybe it was some of the stories I've heard, I really could believe he was just in a good mood.

"You figured right," I grunted ruefully, but smiled.

I watched Lucien swing up onto Shadowmere's back and I realized something I had missed earlier. "You don't use a saddle?" I asked as Lucien turned Shadowmere to start off.

He stopped and turned her back around, smiling, "Shadowmere won't wear one," he patted her shoulder fondly and Shadowmere whickered and lashed her tail. "Bridle, she'll tolerate. But not the saddle. She's not exactly…tame…you see."

"Hn," I shrugged. It was just…odd, I guess. I had been expecting full and fancy riding tack. But it seems a pretty minimalist system. I was expecting…well, I guess something that matched his meticulous image of being this well-dressed, well-spoken almost dandy of an individual.

I also noticed, here, he wasn't even wearing riding gloves.

I'm, beginning to think the Speaker is something of a paradox – or maybe I'm just getting to a point where I can see little gaps in his crafted persona. He comes across as being a bit of a…well, a bit of a fop, if you know what I mean, and yet…the details are starting to suggest otherwise.

Ladies and gentleman – the puzzle has taken on new depth.

"Won't you, you know…fall off?" I wished I hadn't asked.

Lucien chuckled.

I said I like horses, I didn't say I was particularly educated about riding – I can get from point A to point B and not fall out of the saddle, but that's about it. I'm not much of a rider otherwise.

I shall have to remedy that, come to think about it.

"Shadowmere makes it her business to keep her rider where he belongs. If she should consent, a child could ride her and be in no danger of falling…unless the little fool was playing around, but then," he shrugged as if to say Shadowmere wouldn't accept that kind of burden. His tone indicated it was unlike he would _ask _her to tolerate that sort of burden, either.

It's obvious they've been a team for quite a while. You find this sort of thing in ballads and bards' tales all the time: the man and his faithful steed, though this looked more like friendship and mutual respect than just an overly loyal horse.

Lucien raised his hand in farewell, fingers splayed almost ridiculously, which suddenly made blinding sense.

I inclined my head politely and returned the gesture.

Five fingers and a thumb: each perfectly distinguishable from the others.

If Lucien is a finger on the hand…I'll bet he's the middle finger.

--S--

I hastened back to the Sanctuary – set my herbs out to dry with a note saying it was for a pet project, and that they should be left alone, and packed for a day or two. It was several hours' worth of ride to the Imperial City, and I fully planned on renting a horse.

Going down to the Imperial City was a good way to stretch my legs, but I had ulterior motives for wanting to go: namely that nifty ring at Red Diamond Jewelry.

I hoped it was still there.

I found Elrick exactly where he was supposed to be – at the King and Queen Tavern - and he took the envelope with a smile. "Heard you all got rained on," he teased.

"Yeah – Lucien and Ocheeva thought I was going to start gnawing on the furniture, so they kicked me out to play courier," I smiled when I said it though. It was fairly true, even if Ocheeva technically didn't figure into it.

Elrick laughed and slit the envelope open. Inside the white envelope was a black one, which turned out not an envelope at all, but a cleverly folded and sealed piece of thick paper.

"What…is that, if I can ask?" I asked, motioning to the black paper.

Elrick smiled, was silent a moment longer and set the paper in an empty plate and touched it. It burst into flames, and gave off a faintly acrid smell. "Orders," Elrick shook his hand, as if he'd burned his fingers, and then blew on them.

I wondered if his spell had fizzled. "Ah," I knew better than to ask.

"Smart girl," Elrick grinned and reached over as if to ruffle my hair – which he couldn't do, because it was braided securely, and coiled around the back of my head, neat and classy looking.

Also impossible to grab, ruffle, or otherwise disturb.

I also gave him a 'don't try that with me' look. "Well, that done, I'll be off," I said cheerfully when he simply clapped me on the arm.

"You won't stay for breakfast?" Elrick offered.

"No, I've got business in the City to see to, before I go home. Don't you need to hop to?" I asked nodding at the ashes of the note.

"Ah – what Lucien doesn't know," Elrick shrugged comfortably. "Besides, I'm not the type to go 'hop to' on an empty stomach. Trust me – it's one of the few assumptions that man makes: that you'll do your job, sooner or later. Because…" he waved illustratively.

"...woe unto you if he has to come find out why it's not been done," I finished and Elrick grinned.

"Bingo," he nodded.

I held up my hand in farewell and Elrick chuckled.

"Already started on you, has he?" but he returned the gesture. "Careful where you use that little sister," he warned.

"I know," I smiled – it was just like a secret handshake, only it could be a little more subtle. I chuckled and left the room, and ventured out into the city.

It was only midmorning as I entered the Market District. The ring was still there, and while expensive, it wasn't as expensive as it might have been. And I still had cash in my pocket from the contract on Tussaud.

A topic still in discussion, when I arrived.

I smiled – the story seems to have grown a little, from the way that _I_ recall it.


	19. Chapter 19

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Eighteen: Accidents Happen

--

The gift of the little pillow, laced with alchemical reagents and spellwork, helped. For three days Antoinetta's sleep was not nightmare free, but it did cut back on the times she needed to wake, allowing her to rest better – something she was quick to comment on.

I also discovered that there was a drawback to this: she had more energy than ever. Though, over the next several days she had two missions – and was dispatched so quickly one right after the other that I barely saw her.

Ocheeva and Teinaava both were dispatched and I found that Telaendril, too, had a job to do. So all in all, I was stuck with M'raaj Dar, and able to simply socialize with Vicente and Gogron – which was to say, I spent a lot of time in the practice room, with Gogron trying to 'tag' me. It was only a 'tag' because if he'd been trying to hit me, he'd have flattened me. At least when he tagged me too hard, I only went sprawling, and was able to get back up with no broken bones.

But, on the upside, I learned very quickly how to stay out of arm's reach. A skill that is undoubtedly going to come in handy, sooner or later.

--S--

It was a full week after I had run the orders down to Elrick before Vicente – smiling –came and found me. "We've a job for you – you were suggested," he said as I ducked Gogron's flailing, and tumbled to relative safely.

"Hey, I quit," I barked to Gogron and had to duck another blow. This, I had been expecting. I don't stop, and drop my guard until Gogron indicates that the match is over. I got flattened that way –woke up twenty minutes later without a clue as to what had happened.

"Sorry, Sari," Gogron grinned.

"Uh-huh," I grinned back. Gogron's a little slow on stopping a sparring bout.

I patted his back and followed Vicente back to his office and flopped down into the other chair. "Requested? How's that work, anyway?" I asked, dabbing at my forehead with my sleeve. I had finally made the shift from wearing long sleeves to short, as the weather topside had gotten nice and stayed that way.

In this last week, I had decided that if I was replacing my original family with this one, then I needed someone to sit in the 'grownup' spot. That someone was Vicente- whom I was, by now, calling Vee. Uncle Vee, in my head, and it was to him that I posed my questions. I think it amused him, a little, to have such an inquisitive individual in and about the sanctuary. But I learned a lot, very quickly, because Vicente was not the sort to get annoyed by a hail of questions – he would answer them.

Sometimes the answers were short, other times they expanded to cover many other subjects. And because these were more like conversations, in which I was encouraged to participate – rather than lectures where I was supposed to just suck up whatever was being said – it was a very effective teaching style.

"Ah, a new subject," Vicente settled back into his chair and peered absently at the contract. "When a Speaker brings the contracts in, to be sorted and delegated, most are simply assigned to whatever Brother or Sister is available. Occasionally, there will be a scribbled suggestion, like for Gogron, it might be 'extreme heavy security – private army. Perhaps dispatch Gogron'. It is in this manner that you were suggested as a good candidate. 'Sarielle's style' is what he said," Vicente actually handed me the contract, so I could see for myself.

The penmanship of the contract itself was cramped and jittered: mine looks better. It was not signed, but rather, marked with a seal down at the bottom, with what I realized was a thumbprint in wax.

Straight from the Listener, then?

Scribbled in the margin, near the top, was exactly as Vicente had said 'Sarielle's style' and below that, 'LL', offset so that the bottom stroke of the top L gave way to the upper loop of the bottom L - it looked like one semi-continuous looping line. Lucien has lovely handwriting, bold, elegant, and a little easier to read than Vicente's, because Lucien isn't trying to conserve ink. He's the sort who pushes down too hard on the pen.

"Yeah," I said mildly, looking up from the contract, not yet having read it, being more interested in the lesson at hand, "that and Lucien doesn't want to have Ocheeva complaining that I chewed up the furniture because I wasn't walked regularly," this statement was something of a running joke, and had been adopted by several of the more energetic members of the Family.

Like the crazy psychotic-type dogs: walk them regularly to the wreck the house. Yeah – those are the ones.

Vicente chuckled again. "You and your way with words. But you're probably right. I think that in this case, your being given this mission is a bit of a joke – but you'll see that in a moment, if you just read ahead a little. On topic, though, sometimes, there is a specific request from a Speaker – or even the Listener – to sort of 'borrow' an assassin. Like 'I want so-and-so to do this – please dispatch accordingly', or 'can you spare so and so for this contract' and a copy will be provided.

"We don't get many of those, Lucien trusts that Ocheeva and I know our people's skills well enough, and the Listener is not one to micromanage. Then there are what we call Black List jobs – that's not the official term, of course," Vicente continued, "those are jobs sanctioned by the Black Hand themselves, you'll have to hustle if you want to be noticed for that kind of thing – but be careful. Telaendril is aiming for that sort of trust as well."

Yeesh. It's a good thing Telaendril and I are friends – I already knew that she wanted to be one of the ones to get the specially sanctioned-by-the-Hand jobs. She's ambitious, but in a friendly-competitive way…

At least, I hope it's friendly-competitive.

"Lucien…doesn't like the Listener much," I made it a statement.

Vicente sighed. "No, he doesn't. And I can't say that I'm fond of him either – though you didn't hear me say that."

I frowned. "There's a lot of friction, in the Black Hand, isn't there?"

Vicente nodded once, and his expression began to cloud. He didn't want me going down this path of logic, but to his credit, he would not stop me from asking this sort of question either – not unless I got too close to breaking the Tenants.

"Why?"

"You know Lucien beyond passing acquaintance by now – can't you think of several reasons?"

"We're professionals, Vee – we're supposed to be above petty dispute."

_Supposed_ to be. You'll notice M'raaj Dar and I have a silent but open dislike of each other. But he doesn't cause me major problems and I ignore him. Just like family.

"There is more to it than that," Vicente sighed and looked at me, long and hard. "You're an intelligent woman, Sarielle, so I will be frank with you."

I shifted forward in my chair with interest, resting my elbows on my knees, the contract still dangling, almost forgotten, in my hand. "Okay…"

"Read the contract. We'll discuss rumors when there is more time for it," he smiled but I did not.

"Vee? Is it something I need to worry about?" I asked.

"Not as of yet," he answered delicately. "The contract, Sarielle."

I knew that when a conversation was over it would do me as much good to pester Vicente as it would be for me to beat my head against a wall. Not a whole lot. I looked at the contract.

It was for a Bosmer by name of Baenlin, in Bruma – how's that alliteration? "Okay – Baenlin in Bruma."

"And this contract has an opportunity for a bonus. Keep reading," Vicente advised, though somberly, regarding me over his hands. He had laced his fingers, and was resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and looking at me with a sort of…pensive gravity.

I looked up, surprised, to see the vampire still giving me that searching, considering look.

"Yes, you and your love of toys," he glanced at my hands. On the same finger upon which the Black Band rested was my new ring of poison detection. I don't think Vicente knew what it did, but I was sure he knew it was magical.

I was grinning as I continued to read: a bonus on my second contract? I didn't know if this was normal or not, but it pleased me to no end. According to the contract, the client had made it quite clear that Baenlin's death needed to look like an accident – there was even pre-gathered intelligence that stated Baenlin was a creature of habit. That he liked to sit for several hours reading in an armchair every evening.

Apparently, there was also a heavy mounted trophy – a minotaur's head, stuffed and mounted - above this armchair, and if I could contrive for it to fall, it would kill the old 'mer close to instantly. This being the client's suggestion, it was hinted that I would do well to follow that track.

The other stipulation was that there was a manservant, and he was not to be harmed, in any way, shape or form. I frowned and shrugged. Gromm – sounds Nordic. I'd probably have wanted to stay away from that one anyway.

"What do you think?" Vicente asked once I leaned back, thoughtfully in my chair, eyes half closed, having a good think.

I thought I rather looked like a lizard sunning myself, but that's just me. "I think that this is going to be…interesting," I said blandly, and then smiled. "Accidents happen."

"Indeed they do – remember – Baenlin must die – even if it means forgoing the bonus."

I got to my feet and smiled a little more broadly. "No one likes a useless assassin, Vee," I quoted his original observation of many weeks ago back at him.

Vicente laughed at this and I left, leaving the contract with him.

Well, I've arranged accidents before. I could see why Lucien thought of me. I smiled – I like his sense of humor. I didn't used to think he had one.

--S--

Bruma is cold.

Well, that's an understatement: even when Cheydinhal is just starting to get warm weather, Bruma still looks like a block of ice, sprinkled over with snow. The Nordic-styled houses are still caked over with snow, and the wind whistles fast and sharp through the town and the mountains surrounding it. It's not nice to be outside – though I had to admit, it was fascinating to watch some of the pastimes the kids come up with.

But after three days of discreetly keeping an eye on Baenlin and Gromm – mostly to confirm whatever the client had professed to be truth, because I was not about to risk my neck on what might turn out to be faulty information - I was quite confident that I could pull this off flawlessly. I stayed at the Jerall View Inn, the more reputable of the two inns in Bruma, rather than seeking out the Family here simply because I wanted to be seen by the populace.

I was seen as a pleasant, moderately well-to-do lady, enjoying a few days in Bruma before moving on to Chorrol to join her husband. I wore the Black Band on the appropriate finger, to perpetuate the story.

And they fell for it beautifully.

--S--

Preparing my tools, organizing my spellwork – that is, practicing the two spells I would need to make this truly look like an accident – took a little time. But that was what I loved – a good long plot-and-prepare before I actually did anything.

No rush, no fuss.

I actually scouted the house once before the big night – just to make sure I could find the crawlspace that had been mentioned as the housing of the minotaur head's mounting, to make sure chair and trophy were placed properly, and to make sure I could get out quickly.

You see, if the authorities were to look closely, once the trophy had dropped on the unfortunate 'mer, they would be able to tell whether or not the ties had been cut, or otherwise sabotaged. Well, that would make it look like murder – and that would mean that I would forego the bonus.

And Vicente had hinted that it was well worth my trouble.

I told him that the challenge alone was worth my trouble, and that the bonus was just that. It's true –this was one contract where I could plot to my heart's desire. Where I could satisfy my inner perfectionist. I didn't have to worry about it getting sloppy, because I had the entire situation scripted out.

To avoid this snag of the authorities seeing obvious marks of sabotage, I had come up with a simple but complex solution. What I proposed, then, was to use magicka to supplement – or rather simulate - the effects of time: heat and cold, to be exact. The problem was that it was tricky to do, and I nearly set fire to my own clothes practicing.

I don't understand it: I can run a magical fire in a brazier, or while I'm doing alchemy _all day_ and never have it flicker, fizzle, or otherwise go awry. But as soon as I take 'alchemy' out of the equation and try to do something else…the damn spells just don't work and it's only ever fire that gives me trouble.

Ice? No problem.

Sparks, lighting, shock? No problem.

Or maybe I just developed a stigma against, it, when I nearly burned the house down. I can name only one time where such a spell has worked properly, unrehearsed, and that was when I lit the fire at my camp, back when I met Lucien for the first time. Then again, I'd used a stronger blast than I probably should have, so maybe I was just more careful…Who knows?

He might have even been counter-spelling the area around the fire pit so things wouldn't get out of hand.

Yeah, that sounds about right, actually…

--S--

Getting in was easy: I went up through the basement while Gromm was out and Baenlin was napping – just like I'd done when I scouted the place. Baenlin was something of a recluse, and Groom would occasionally run errands for him.

Granted doing it this way meant I would have to spend a lot of time lying in wait – but I didn't mind that. I had patience, and I would prefer not to sneak around when there was an opportunity that I could be seen more than I had to. Better to be bored for a while than to be caught breaking and entering.

Baenlin liked to sit and read from eight in the evening to eleven o'clock at night, and Gromm would sit nearby, or stand, depending on his mood, keeping watch over his aging master. I'll admit I did feel a little sorry for Gromm, who struck me as being rather simple, and the sort who would take the death of his master very hard.

But, business is business.

The crawlspace was actually in Gromm's room, and I don't think he knew it was there. I found the hidden catch and got the door open, and closed it behind myself as I entered. I murmured the appropriate signs and my vision bloomed brilliantly blue as the nighteye spell manifested. For moment my eyes felt vaguely as if they were very cold, or had a mild sensation of pins and needles in them – because nighteye has that effect on the caster, as well as making the eyes look ghastly to an observer.

I'll have to work on a potion to negate that. I'll make it my pet project, once I get home. And I spent the next several hours of waiting puzzling how I might remove the change in the eyes.

--S--

But, eight o'clock came and I watched as the dancing magenta life-forces of Baenlin and Gromm relocated into the living room. Baenlin settled in his chair beneath the trophy, and Gromm seemed to be leaning on something – the mantelpiece, perhaps.

I abandoned my private musings and shifted so that I was very close to the bindings on the minotaur-head trophy. They were old, and beginning to go, as I already knew. I closed my eyes and felt the two spells enter my hands. The left hand had the ice, the right hand – my dominant hand – held the fire.

I opened my eyes to see my fingertips radiating faint light, blue and red. I held out my fore and middle fingers together, as if they were lock picks attached to my hands and moved them until they were very close to the bindings and took a calming breath. I could feel the tug of lack of control in my right hand, and waited until it subsided.

No accidents here, except Baenlin's.

With the ice spell to make the bindings wet, and the heat spell to dry and heat them, it didn't take very long for the bindings to being to weaken and then to twist and show wear. I stopped the spells and watched. The bindings were already stretching, straining to hold a trophy too heavy for their weakened state. I didn't scoot back, or try to leave until I was sure that the plan had succeeded.

And it did. There was a moment where I simply crouched there, ready to turn and leave, and then there was a wet snapping sound and a loud crash as the trophy and its plaque fell forward.

I watched the life-forces over and down from my hiding place.

I could hear Gromm shouting, see him moving, as if he had drawn his massive warhammer and was looking for someone to splatter all over the place.

Baenlin's life force was fading, quickly. I waited until there was no sign of the pink light that marked the 'mer as among the living, then I exited the crawlspace, moving with soft footsteps.

I cast a chameleon spell over myself and exited the house the way I had come in, through the basement, obliterating my tracks in the snow behind me with an ice spell, simply masking the signs. Then, I reappeared in a niche of the chapel of Talos, in a corner where I could be easily missed. I stayed until I was finally noticed – giving me an alibi –and eventually made my way back to the Inn.

I was not detained long – not when the priests could vouch I had been at the chapel. My questioning by the city guard was short, and I was given leave to travel to Chorrol the very next day.

--Author's notes appended--

A note on magicka: When Sarielle – or any other mage - performs a spell with a spoken component, the spell will be given a sound – what she's actually articulating is the symbol, the map of the spell that mages will read off a piece of paper, or out of a book when they first learn it. The idea for spoken spells is that magicka is given shape, shape is given sound, sound gives way to physical manifestation. For nonverbal spells, it has to do with will and clarity of mind, shape is given to the spell, and the spell manifests based on the caster's clarity of direction and concentration.  
Spoken spells are to be considered easiest, silent spells with hand motions more difficulty, and silent spells without any sort of indicator the most difficult. Any spell can be cast aloud or silently – it depends on the caster. Sarielle can because she spent so many years at the Mages' Guildhall, and knows the mechanics.

I had to come up with this, because the magicka usage of Oblivion is vague at best, and I decided needed to be fleshed out.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. The plot starts to thicken!

--

Chapter Nineteen: Tremors in the Web

--

I got back to Cheydinhal late at night – late enough that the only one up was probably Vicente – and he'd be out, probably looking for a snack. If I'm honest…I would prefer not to see Vicente in 'vampire hunting' or 'vampire feeding' situations. Because honestly…it does sound a little messy and a little gross.

Don't get me wrong, I love him to death...ah, well, you know…but I'm squeamish like that.

It's odd – I can use a knife to punch a hole in the back of a man's skull and hardly flinch…but I can hardly bear the thought of Vee out there, sucking on necks.

Blood in a goblet? Fine.

Messy spatter on the job? Great.

Slice someone to ribbons? Bring it on!

Does that make me strange?

--S--

I was humming quietly when I got back to the Sanctuary, and dropped my pack in the doorway and handed my cloak off to Smethwick.

Yeah – Smethwick is the name of one of the dark guardians – I don't know who came up with it, but there you have it…Smethwick.

Smethwick took my cloak but clattered his fingers until I looked at him. He immediately began a very complex pantomime and I stared blankly at him, my lip curling slightly in confusion. "Who did what with a frying pan to the moon?" I asked blankly – that's what it looked like to me. I sometimes think that this particular guardians is…I don't know…not right in the head.

Smethwick seemed to slump at the shoulders – clearly he meant, 'here we go again'. And slowly went through the series of signs again.

"Okay…" I held up a hand to forestall a third run through. "You said…that we've got a Speaker here…and he's in a bad…really bad mood…" Smethwick nodded, his neck creaking. "And I should watch my…mouth? No –walk quietly…" Smethwick is the dark guardian who has, as you may have noticed, the most trouble making himself clear. I'm not sure why, except that maybe he doesn't keep his attempts at communication simple.

Smethwick clapped his hands softly, and then creaked off to put my cloak away.

A Speaker, hmm?

It wasn't just any Speaker, it was Lucien, which made me wonder why Smethwick hadn't just signed 'L' like Tag or Shuffles. See, I can decode everyone in the Sanctuary by now. Sarielle, in guardian-sign, is when they draw fingers from the jaw to the waist – they're referencing the way I usually wear my hair, long and braided. I now know where I picked up 'Vee' as a nickname for Vicente. That's how the guardians indicate Vicente – two fingers, forming a V. Simple, right? The things you know without really realizing.

I slipped forward, to find Lucien slumped in an armchair, facing the fire. I thought he was asleep at first – and it looked like he'd been drinking. Now, from what I know about Lucien, he's not the type to just go and get himself plastered…but it looked like he'd been intending to make an effort in that direction.

His pallor was a little redder than it usually is, and he looked tired, as if the whole world was bearing down on him. On top of that, his breathing was slightly irregular, and heavy, as if he'd been running. Bear in mind, please, that we as a group, are some of the most in-shape people you'll find – we have to be.

"Yes?" Lucien asked a little hoarsely, his eyes opening slightly, to reflect firelight.

First thought: it was unnerving. For a moment I couldn't see anything behind his eyes – like there was a wall, or a curtain blocking conscience, or sentience. I can't explain it, it was just…_wrong_ to my way of thinking, and, as I said, unnerving. To the point that I immediately put myself on the defense.

What did he mean 'yes'? _I_ was the normal one here, so far as I could tell. "Just checking on you, boss," I said with enough annoyance to get across the point that if he was just going to be rude – he was not wearing the black robes – that he should drag himself off to his room and sleep it off. I sighed irritably. "Nothing, Lucien – absolutely nothing," I said and shook my head and turned to stomp off to the barracks.

"Sarielle?" His tone hand changed. It was not exactly apologetic, but it had lost some of the asperity it had originally held.

I stopped walking and turned to look back at him: he was leaning in his chair so he could see me out of the corner of his eye.

Lucien looked so tired, exhausted, and I decided that whatever had him worked up – if worked up I could call it – it was probably very bad news indeed. It was here I realized that this was not 'exhausted' as I'd ever seen him. This looked like 'end of the rope' tired. "Yeah Lucien?" I asked more gently and walked back over to stand near his chair. He wouldn't see me, but I had no doubt he could feel my presence. An assassin develops a certain sense of when someone is behind him or her. Mine has already begun to sharpen.

"Do you trust me?" he asked quietly.

That was an odd question, and one that unnerved me – made my stomach lurch and shudder, and feel like it had just been filled with ice water. I moved so I was standing perpendicular to his chair and got down on one knee, so I was peering up at him, instead him having to crane his neck to see me. I reached up and squeezed his forearm, a little hesitantly, because I'm still a little shy about invading other people's space. "With my life," I answered honestly, feeling very wrong-footed. "Lucien…what happened? What's the matter?" I managed to keep the worry out of my tone and just sound calm.

Lucien looked away from me and pursed his lips, but then he reached his free and over and rested his fingertips the back of my hand. He heaved a great sigh and looked up towards the shadow-swathed ceiling. "Elrick is dead," he said a little dazedly, as if he understood the words but couldn't quite comprehend them. He swallowed hard and mouthed a moment as if he meant to say more, then shook his head. Those three little words seemed to have taken whatever strength and fortitude he had left.

"D-dead?" I was shocked – not just by the words, but how vulnerable Lucien seemed. I was just getting used to the fact that he was human, and really part of the family…this was getting to be more than I thought I could handle, and I had no one to yell for to come help – to fix this. Vicente was out, and would have been my first choice.

And Elrick? He'd been just fine a few days ago...then the idiocy, the sheer naïve-to-extremity _idiocy_ of that thought caught up with me. Sarielle, you _idiot_. That was the thing about _dying_ – you were _fine_ until you kicked the bucket…but even that attempt at humor failed me.

Miserably. I was glad I had not voiced the sentiment aloud.

"How?" I asked, instead, managing to keep my voice steady.

It was an act of will. I know that men and women deal with grief and pain differently. But I also know that most men have trouble dealing with weeping women – and I was absolutely certain that even if he was one of the rare few who knew how, Lucien wouldn't be _able_ to.

I knew that if I lost control here, if I started to cry – which I was beginning to feel like doing – I was going to make this situation very bad indeed. I wouldn't have been crying for Elrick…he's gone where this can't hurt him. I was crying for us –for the ones left behind. And because…it scared me a little. A lot. I think it just might be one of the scariest things…knowing that someone I respect so much, have so much confidence in…is _only_ human. With limits, and more than that, I can't fix the problem.

Helpless. I hate being helpless. That was what was wrong – I wanted to cry out of sheer helplessness…

Courage, Sari. Courage…confidence. You can be a little wuss later. But not right now. I pursed my lips.

Lucien glanced down at me. I did not try to use a charm spell on him, I simply must have looked that shocked because he answered the question. "On a contract," he looked away and hunched slightly.

I swallowed hard, forcing my own feelings, fears, and difficulties into some small closet in my mind and rolling the rock of 'The Problem At Hand' over the door. "I'm sorry…" I whispered, and bit my lip. I didn't know Elrick well, but I'd liked him, even if he made my fingertips tingle in a bad way.

Lucien nodded to show he'd heard me.

I didn't know what else I could say, or do. I knelt there until my knees screamed for me to find a better position. "There's nothing I can do?" I was amazed how calm I sounded, as if I had no inner struggle, no turmoil. Just strength to share – to give away. I certainly didn't feel that way.

"No," Lucien shook his head, but his touch on the back of my hand shifted into something more like a grip.

I could see a sort of self recrimination in his eyes that, to me, didn't seem totally congruous with losing a gofer to a contract. That was what we did…but then again, I've never lost anyone close to me – not close enough that I'd mourn their passing – feel it cut deeply, leave wounds that might not heal.

Maybe my observation was born of ignorance, but I could imagine the damage that losing any one of my Family would do to me…and if I felt responsible…it would kill me.

I stood up and Lucien withdrew his hand from mine.

I squeezed his shoulder with less hesitation than when I'd touched his hand, feeling the leather encasing it give a little, making sure he'd feel the gesture, and went in the barracks and raided my footlocker. I found what I was looking for in a corner, it having fallen to the bottom. I walked back to find Lucien still in his chair, hardly having moved position since I'd left, still feigning sleep again.

I set the little bottle down with an audible click that carried in the silent stillness, and Lucien's eyes opened again. "Take care of yourself, huh? This will help – quarter teaspoon in a glass of water. You'll be out for the rest of the night," I advised gently. "And sleep will be empty, dreamless as the Void," I meant this in a good way.

I felt that anything else would be…too much.

"Smethwick," I addressed the silent room, my voice carrying calm and strong as I approached the barracks door again. "A glass of water for Lucien, if you please."

--S--

I lay awake in my bed thinking, much later, though I wasn't sure how much was 'much'. I wasn't thinking about how we caused this sort of uncertainty, pain and torment in others. I wasn't moralizing, or trying to justify my own actions. In fact, I wasn't thinking about my own actions at all.

I was thinking…what could have killed Elrick, of all people? He was an assassin, Lucien's gofer, and while that might not sound like an important job – just being someone's gofer…I couldn't help but think that Lucien had the rest of us to do any dirty work he might have…which meant – to my mind – that Elrick probably did…other things.

But what? Dangerous things? That was the first thing that came to my mind.

I narrowed my eyes and toyed with going to _find_ Vicente.

I got up and cast my blankets aside. The sense of brooding that I knew was in the other room was keeping me awake. My mind was moving too fast for sleep, anyway. I felt like a nervous cat, trapped in a room when it really wanted to be outside.

I reached the door that separated the barracks and the common room and stopped, silently in my tracks.

"Elrick, now?" Vicente's voice asked quietly.

Lucien didn't speak, but I sensed that he must have responded.

"This bodes ill."

"You don't need to tell me that," Lucien snapped, hurt and frustration…and something less easily defined, in his tone.

Vicente showed more patience than I might have, and I cast a chameleon spell across myself, blessing the vampire for having lived long enough to know how to deal with this sort of situation.

I know that in normal society, it's reprehensible to eavesdrop, but I didn't consider this. There was something…really wrong here. And I, being who I am, had to know. Even if it was just knowing more than one or two puzzle pieces.

And I'm practically invisible – I shouldn't be noticed, unless someone walks into me.

Lucien suddenly gave an oath that sounded like a mix of anger and…anguish, and there was a sound as if he'd knocked his chair over it. Here was a stretch of calm silence in which I could hear what was either breathing, or choked emotion. "I shouldn't have sent him…I should have done it, myself..."

I looked up, unnerved, but unable to move from where I now crouched by the cracked door. "That," Vicente said gently, "would have served no purpose. You don't like it, but you know it."

"He..."

"He was a member of the Dark Brotherhood, an excellent assassin. It seems our friend has grown…bold," Vicente's tone was meditative.

"Bold? If he wants me so badly he should just come at me!" Lucien barked and there was a silence that seemed to wince. "How many more of them have to die, Vicente?" Lucien asked, his tone a little hollow.

I felt bad at this point, for eavesdropping, because it occurred to me that if it were anyone else, he would have given them the a same routine he gave me. He trusted Vicente enough to not waste the energy trying to maintain some semblance of composure and normalcy.

"It wouldn't matter if it was outside the Family, you know that…but…how can they trust me not to get them killed foolishly, needlessly when I can't even…"

"Enough. If you mention the word 'resign', I'm going to get very angry," Vicente said, and I had no doubt that he would. "Elrick's death is unsettling – painful, yes. A genuine blow, yes. It speaks more than what you think: our clever friend is beginning to grow bold."

"He's not clever, he's psychotic," Lucien snapped bitterly.

"The same could be said of you or I," Vicente continued patiently. "He's striking directly and indirectly…I'm surprised he could get to Elrick – Elrick knew, that there was a problem, did he not?"

"Yes…" there was a pregnant pause.

"What is it?" Vicente asked, in response, I suppose, to Lucien's expression. "Lucien? What is it?"

"It may not be anything," Lucien said, attempting to restore his usual sense of calm – you could hear the struggle in his voice.

"Lucien…who else knows Elrick is dead? And what did you tell them?" Vicente asked calmly. "Pick up the chair, lad, sit down," Vicente's tone had changed to something sympathetic, but still a tone not to be argued with.

There were sounds of the chair being righted and a soft thump as Lucien must have thrown himself carelessly into it. "Sarielle knows…and I don't think…" silence and then he started again. "I don't think she'll believe that he was just…killed on a contract for very long. She's damnably astute…but I knew that when I recruited her." And yet, he didn't sound entirely angry – merely as though my part was a small inconvenience, and not something to be truly angry with.

"Yes, she is, but Elrick _was _killed on a contract, so you weren't exactly lying," I could hear the question: 'you don't think she might just accept your answer at face value?' lurking beneath the statement.

That's overly optimistic, Vee.

"No, Vicente. She'll suspect I wasn't telling her _all_ of the truth. She's very perceptive."

"Yes, I know – she was asking me a few very hard questions before I sent her to Bruma. I wanted to consult with you first, about how much I should tell her. I don't like to lie to my pupils, Lucien, as you very well know…"

"…but you don't want to upset the stability of the Sanctuary…I know. I agree. What do you think?"

Vicente was silent along time. "It is perhaps, best that she be informed. Otherwise, she'll go ferreting about – you know very well how it is, when you're given a puzzle. It is best she get the information we have – that way, we can bind her to silence on the matter."

Lucien scoffed. "I don't think that's going to work, Teacher," he said ruefully.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised," Vicente said, and then after a pause, "Sarielle – will you come here, please."

Damn. Heartbeats…crap. I believe the common word, these days is 'busted'.

I dropped my chameleon spell and walked out to find Lucien slumped in his chair, the dark guardians arrayed in a shadowy corner, and Vicente standing before the fireplace, his hands folded behind his back. "Eavesdropping is a terrible habit, in polite company," Vicente said mildly.

I wasn't sure what to say to this, so I decided on the truth. "I was seriously considering going looking for you_, _Vee," I said. "I was worried."

"Ah," Vicente nodded, but asked for no more explanation than that. "Sit."

I obeyed, sitting down in the other armchair, which was settled beside Lucien's. I didn't ask if they were mad at me. I was more worried about the implications I had overheard.

"Before I tell you anything, Sarielle, I want you to make me two promises, and I want you to swear by whatever it is that you, personally, hold dearest. This matter is not one that we feel the Family needs to be worried over yet," Vicente said calmly.

I opened my mouth to swear it, and then Vicente was in my face, eyes glowing, his hand gripping my throat firmly, but not enough to choke me. If he squeezed any harder, though…my brain locked up. I was trapped by red eyes and all I could do was gape in shock. "_Swear that this conversation will remain unspoken, outside of present company_," Vicente snarled in my face.

It absolutely was terrifying. I could see, for the first time, the shadow of the animal side of vampirism in his eyes. Even his face seemed to change, the way he looked chronically a little tired had vanished and I was looking into the face of a hunter…a predator in the most perfect and horrifying sense of the word.

"On…" I couldn't say it and his grip tightened marginally.

"_Swear_."

"On all I hold precious in this life, including my own…silence…" I managed to gag.

"_Swear that you will refrain from ferreting about. You are not a detective_."

I nodded and then repeated the oath.

Vicente let my throat go gently, then put his hand on top of my head, and was, once again, just Vicente, my mentor, my friend. Looking a little tired, and a little burdened…but no longer angry, no longer seeking to frighten.

But the memory was etched into my mind, and I was sure that even if I wanted to compare notes with someone else…I wouldn't risk seeing _that _side of him ever again.

I could have nightmares from that.

"Understand, that for you to speak, now, of this matter, will invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Do not betray the Dark Brotherhood, or its secrets," Vicente quoted quietly. "Do you understand?"

I nodded. I was still understandably unnerved.

"Forgive the crude methods, but these are bad times, Sarielle," Lucien said quietly, and he reached over and pried my hand off the arm of my chair and let me clench his hand, which was warm, in contrast to Vicente's slightly cool touch.

"Why don't you want me in on this?" I asked, my tone still shaking. Vicente had been rather…well, terrifying.

"I don't want any of the Family in on this, who are not already involved," Lucien said. "because the threat is to the very stability of the Family," he closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged. "There is a traitor, in our midst, Sarielle."

"A traitor? But…" I looked from Lucien to Vicente. "But…"

"Yes, inconceivable, I know. Such things are usually swiftly dealt with."

"But you know who, right?" I looked from one to the other again.

"We do not," Vicente said firmly. "all we know is that this Sanctuary has been…targeted."

I looked at Lucien. "Why?"

"Who knows?" Vicente shook his head. "The disturbing part is that, previously, traitors have always been rooted out, quickly. In very short order, the Family tree was pruned…but this one…is clever. Disturbingly clever."

"You said he was psychotic," I corrected before thinking.

"Thank you," Lucien said quietly, an almost sarcastic jab at Vicente.

"You don't attack a Speaker's…gofer…just for kicks and grins, Sarielle," Vicente said firmly. "It's a bold move – tantamount to a personal attack. And the fact remains that _he got away with it. _Do not underestimate this traitor, Lucien, or you, Sarielle. It would be most...unwise. Potentially _lethal_."

"Oh shit…"

"Indeed," Lucien said.

"But…" I sat back. "Tell me, Vee…"

"Tell you what?" Vicente asked a little bitterly.

"Everything," I said firmly.

"Everything?" Vicente looked at me.

"Look, I know that I'm just a murderer, the lowest rank in the Family…and that I have no business in Family politics just yet…but I also know a little more than the others, though my bad habit of eavesdropping, and some very good timing. You mentioned that there were problems before you sent me to Bruma, now I learn there's a traitor amongst us – it doesn't take an _archmage_ to figure that there is a really big problem if the Black Hand seems to be having trouble dealing with one rogue assassin," I said this very quietly, and very coldly.

--S--

'Everything' was not as extensive as I thought – namely that there was a traitor. He was killing off the Family. The Black Hand was trying to find him with no success. Cheydinhal was taking the blame –we had already lost several members including some who had relocated to other Sanctuaries. A girl, by name of Maria, was one. And then there was Elrick. There were more – several more…

And it threatened to undermine the stability of the family.

"There is one good thing about this," Vicente said finally, after all was said that needed to be said.

"Which is?" Lucien asked.

"Which is, he will have to lie low for a while. Killing Elrick…it is bold. He will wait, and watch. See what happens. Talk to Blanchard's Speaker, as you meant to, Lucien. And now, it is late."

Lucien and I both took the hint – the discussion as over. My mind was buzzing like a beehive full of very angry bees, and I was sort of glad Vicente called it quits.

Lucien had actually looked like he had been nodding off in his chair. "Does this really work?" he asked, holding up the bottle of sleeping draught I had left earlier, as Vicente vanished towards his office.

"I brewed it myself –it works very well. Don't use more than a quarter teaspoon, though, or you'll be out for a week," I said blandly. "Good night."

I don't know how I got to sleep, but I did.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty: Long Weeks, Right Questions

--

I woke early and got up. With everything in my mind buzzing from last night I was amazed I'd slept at all. I was rummaging around in the kitchen and contemplating whether or not I wanted to fry up a few eggs – I decided not –and was just turning out of the kitchen when Lucien turned into it, showing the classic signs of waking up before the sleeping draught was ready to let him. There was one of those moments when everyone dances around and he wound up in the kitchen and I wound up out without us getting tripped or tangled. "Well – I'm awake now…" he said a little dully, and rubbed his eyes.

He looked leftovers warmed up, four days after a big party. Mmm hmm. It was pretty bad – but he was up. "So, did that stuff work for you?" I asked mildly. Aside from the obvious signs, I had noticed that there was a measure missing when I had reclaimed the bottle this morning.

Lucien gave a rather wry smile; it looked like a lot of work. "Oh yeah – it even took care of my hangover," he said blandly, though it was something of a relief to me, because it was obviously an attempt at a joke.

I smiled, a little emptily, but it was a decent effort. "You know I'm here for you, boss."

"See if you still feel that way once Vicente takes a look at the contracts," Lucien called from the kitchen.

I poked my head back into the kitchen, to find Lucien with his back to me, rifling through the pantry. I opened my mouth to ask what would probably end up being a stupid question, then shook my head and walked, yawning into the common room.

"Oh, you're up," Vicente had a handful of papers and was looking harassed, though more composed and in better spirits than Lucien or I. Which isn't to say he wasn't disturbed by the death in the Family, or the Troubles, it just means he's better at hiding it.

"Yeah," I yawned.

"Good – I've got four contracts for you – mostly easy alley-basher, cloak and dagger, knife in the back types of job..." Vicente rattled off the contracts, marks and locations and I blinked at him. I turned to see Lucien duck back into the kitchen.

I felt a ghost of a grin touch my face. "Oi! Lucien? _What the hell_?!" I barked.

"That's business!" he called back clearly and I suspected that – on a normal day – he might have laughed at me.

"That's _bullshit_!" But I winked at Vicente – who chuckled softly and patted my shoulder, as if to say 'good for you, keeping your mood up'.

Lucien reappeared, carrying a glass of milk. I was by now used to seeing him in a 'normal' light that this did not bother me in the slightest – especially not with four contracts lined up back to back. I had never heard of such a thing, though I do realize that I haven't exactly been here for forever. "I thought you liked being busy," he said mildly, and I think he was rather glad of something loud, that could distract him from current difficulty.

Well, I was definitely loud. I smiled sweetly. "I like having something to do – but what happened? Someone predict the end of the world, and there's sudden a rush to live it up while you can?"

Lucien nearly spewed his milk at the audacity and unblushing-ness of the comment, and I smirked. "Careful boss-man," I advised, smirking.

"Get on with it," he pointed at me a little theatrically with his glass. "Off you go – it being you, I'm not sure whether to count that as a joke or an attempt for me to have an unfortunate 'accident'."

I laughed and patted his shoulder, as Vicente had done for mine. "Accidents have nothing to do with it," I said sweetly, and Vicente handed me the handful of contracts.

"You can stop here in between them – but they are lined up. We're going to be very busy for a few weeks, it looks like," Vicente said. "And that means _everyone_," he said with a meaningful look at Lucien.

"Oh, yes," Lucien said. He looked ruefully at his milk. "I'll see you both later."

"Maybe," I said frowning at the four contracts. Two were fairly close together, if I could memorize them, I could do them, one right after the other, then come back for the others – save a little travel time.

"Meanwhile – report on Bruma," Vicente commanded mildly.

"Oh, yeah," I grinned and shrugged: I had half-forgotten I needed to report in, upon completion of the contract. I had had a lot on my mind aside from my real job.

--S--

Vicente smiled at me – a real, genuine smile of a headmaster pleased with a pupil – as I recounted the assassination, from my arrival in Bruma onward. "I am pleased – well done," he smiled a little more coldly, and got up. I already knew that the Dark Brotherhood always seems to _know_ when things are done…it's creepy, and I have not yet inquired as to _how_ they know. I simply accept it, for the time being.

"As promised, the blood price for you," he handed me a small, soft leather pouch, which I pocketed without paying attention to it. I had already learned that these pouches were enchanted: they could hold any number of coins, and yet the purse itself was no larger than my palm.

"And for completing the contract to the client's specifications," he retrieved from another table – beside his wine and book – a small wooden box. It was very plain, and had magical wards on it. Vicente waved at them and the marks faded from the wood. I looked closely, in the moment when Vicente was standing within arm's reach, at the box. It bore the marks of having been in storage for a while. "This is your bonus – and well deserved, I believe," he said and opened the box.

It was lined with purple silk, and on this bed, in this plain box, resided a beautifully curved blade that – despite the warm lights of the magelight torches – looked cold as Bruma had been. The blade was keen, and the handle was leather-wrapped –a recent job, I decided. The more I used it, the more it would conform to the shape of my hand, becoming a personalized weapon. Granted, I'd have to rewrap it every few months, but still…the craftsmanship was lovely.

As much as I love my Blade of Woe, she's a fairly mundane blade…imbued with sentimental value only. But with this one, I could _feel_ the magical properties of the knife as if they were listed on a placard. Scrolling along the center of the blade – well away from the cutting edges - were Aldmeri curlicues of writing, and when I flipped the knife over, there was the Imperial equivalent.

"Sufferthorn," Vicente said softly. "This blade has history – and it is now yours. It shall serve you well, I think, in days to come. You'll note, it's not as long as your Blade of Woe…but you'll find its bite is far worse than it looks."

"I know…" I said softly. Sufferthorn was only the length of my forearm, from hilt to tip, a hand-length smaller than the Blade of Woe, and considerably lighter. "I can _feel_ it…"

"Yes – I forget you're no novice in the arcane," but they were empty words. He hadn't forgotten. He knew perfectly well what my capabilities were – how else would he know when to assign me, instead of Gogron? Or Tel?

--S--

Over the next two weeks, the Black Hand was running Lucien into the ground, and he was keeping _us_ so busy that we hardly ever saw our other Sanctuary mates – Vicente and Ocheeva had to take over virtually all the cooking, because we would come back from one contract, eat, sleep for a few hours, eat breakfast, and be off on another the next morning. There was just no letting up.

I saw Lucien once during this span, and it was just long enough for him to drop – literally, as in 'forget the ladder, and just drop – down the well looking very harassed, find a live person – me, in this case – and say, "hello goodbye, give these to Vicente," thrust a satchel of papers at me and then he was gone again, with a swirl of cloak and robes.

I stood there, in the middle of the common room trying to un-jumble what he'd said and then automatically turned to walk the papers to Vicente's office.

We were _that_ busy.

--S--

Well, after about two weeks like that, things _finally_ slowed back down, to the point that when we were home, we could actually enjoy each other's company. I kept my word to Vicente and Lucien, and didn't mention even a hint that anything was wrong, save that by this time, everyone knew that Elrick was dead, and were well on the way to getting over his death.

I suspected it would take Lucien longer, as he knew Elrick better than we did, but I kept reminding myself that this Traitor couldn't hide forever. How do you hide in a place like this - like I said, you trip over people, even once you get used to doing it.

--S--

"Twenty…nine…" Gogron grunted.

"Careful Gogron," Tel said mildly, not looking up from her latest book. "You'll burst something."

I snickered softly, the joke not lost, and flicked a page of my sheaf of papers over. The three of us were in the workroom, though Gogron was the only one working. Tel and I were both reading, as Gogron exercised. The weather was windy and threatening, so we had retreated down to the Sanctuary.

Originally, Tel and I had been working on my marksmanship, which I'm pleased to say is getting better, I'm still not fantastic, but I can hit the target when I need to.

"Thirty…she-devil…" Gogron grunted at Tel, who reached over and ran a finger around the curve of his jaw.

"Mm hmm," she agreed.

"What the hell is _this_?"

"This is me reading your paperwork, Tel reading her book, and Gogron keeping occupied, boss-man," I looked up and grinned and clicked my tongue. "Oh, no robes a – not-boss-man-today-boss-man," I corrected myself and grinned at Tel and winking. It was no surprise, the question Lucien had posed as he walked into the workroom, a rather inscrutable expression his face.

Tel and I were sitting on a bench, and that bench was being – get this - bench-pressed by Gogron.

That was why we weren't in the training room proper – no benches.

And when Gogron said thirty, he means _two_ _hundred_ and thirty. The muscle bound orc-mountain doesn't break sweat – says Tel – until three hundred. So far, she was right.

"And why do you have my paperwork?" Lucien asked, a ghost of a disbelieving grin spreading across his face.

The paperwork in question consisted of the completed contracts, validated and countersigned by Vicente and the assassin who completed them. "Vicente's got a migraine…something about sharing the discomfort…I guess he means having to talk to me," I grinned harmlessly.

Lucien gave me a look that indicated he didn't believe 'harmless' for a second, and plucked the papers delicately from my hand and I let him have them, smirking slightly. It was good to see that he was feeling a little better.

Gogron had stopped the rise and fall of the bench and Tel wasn't reading anymore.

I smile blankly at Lucien, my very best look of overwhelming innocence.

"Keep working on that smile, Sarielle, and I'll _almost_ believe it," he said and tapped my knee with the sheaf of papers.

"Oh, by the way," I added just as he reached the door. "He's not even here right now. Won't do you any good to go talk to him," it was very cloudy and Vicente had taken advantage of this to _get away. _

"Where did he go?" Lucien turned.

"No idea," I shrugged innocently.

"Told you – talking to the crazy one is useless," Gogron grunted to Tel and began the rise and fall of the bench.

I've been 'crazy' ever since I teasingly told Gogron that at this rate, we the Family would be the last people left in Cyrodiil, and if that was the case, we'd better get a move on, so we could enjoy _being_ the only people left in Cyrodiil before the end of the world – referring to an earlier statement.

I was, of course, joking about our workload.

"No. No, you've missed the point…stop that a moment, Gogron," Lucien responded, and walked back over and put a hand on the bench and exerted enough force that the orc stopped the motion. "You just have to ask her the right questions," he gave me a piercing look, and I did my best to give a blank look back. Then his mouth turned up at the corners. "Case and point: Sarielle, is Antoinetta cooking tonight?" Lucien asked, looking bemused.

I smiled. "Yes."

"And I suspect Ocheeva is still out?"

I beamed at him – Ocheeva and Teinaava both had been requested for a contract – unusual to say the least, for two assassins to be dispatched for one job, but, as they're twins… "Very good," it was an excellent imitation of Lucien's own one of rather condescending praise.

"See? Always ask the right questions, Gogron," Lucien smiled at me and I smiled back. "Better – much better," he nodded approvingly and walked out of the training room.

"It only works if you _know_ the right questions to ask, boss," I called cheekily after him.

Lucien paused in the doorway then shook his head and vanished out of sight.

"Oooh…you're getting good at playing his own games back at him," Tel said approvingly. "He practically let you walk away from that one unscathed."

"Yeah – it's hilarious. I keep waiting to see he what he's gonna do about it. I can't believe he's just going let me win," it's true: I've heard stories from Vicente about people who got smart with Lucien and one of them ran off in tears.

Never heard what he actually said to her, but I suspect it was cruel and cutting. He has no patience for idiots. Then again, my brand of 'smart' is more a sense of humor and a quick wit than being smart to be rude, disrespectful, or anything of the like. I also suspect he's biding his time to come at me when I'm not expecting it – ambush tactics, you know.

"You should…pick your fights a little better…" Gogron said and he began levering Tel and I up and down again. "That's a scary bastard. I mean that as a compliment."

"Of course he is, that's half the fun right there..." I smiled and crossed my knees, and grinned over at Tel.

"You're…sick…twisted…" Gogron laughed though. "Still…didn't come up with a really good retort…did he Tel?"

"Oh no – I was expecting something to make her blush or steal words right out of her mouth…she's dangerous," Tel reached over and patted my shoulder. "Keep him on his toes, love, he needs it."

I snorted in a very unladylike way at this. "Ah – I don't think Lucien ever is _off_ his toes," I shook my head. "Nah – just keep him off balance…that might work..." I snickered.

"Sarielle. I'd like a word," Lucien's voice echoed from the common room.

"Several, I'll bet," I said as Gogron lowered the bench and Tel and I both slipped off at the same time. "Here comes the retribution for being smart-mouthed. If I cry or blush, I'll make this my first stop…" but I grinned. I was having a good day, it would take a lot to ruin it.

"Deal with Antoinetta's…garlic-flavored experiments," Lucien said, putting the sheaf of papers in a satchel, as soon as I was visible.

"What do you want me to do about it? I've got no seniority..." I began but stopped, and not because it was widely accepted that, like the sky was blue, and the moons were growing holes, Antoinetta would cook with garlic.

Lucien arched his eyebrows at me, and a faint smile was toying around his mouth – he was laughing at me without openly doing so, because I had just killed my own argument, before I even started.

I opened my mouth and gave my imitation of a large mouthed bass. I had forgotten: three days ago, Vicente told me that I had been promoted to Slayer – the same rank as Antoinetta. It was such a recent appointment, and we work in such a way that rank is mostly never used between Family members (except in Lucien's case, obviously), that I was still liable to forget – even if I _knew _it in the back of my mind.

Then Lucien gave me a piercing look that wiped the smile off my face – or rather, off my mind, my mouth remained still pleasantly upturned, but I know he saw the smile fade from my eyes.

He was not – before you worry – about to tell me I'd violated the Tenants. There's a difference between disobedience and giving someone crap – I was doing the latter, and we both knew it.

"_Improvise_," he purred and shouldered his satchel. It was a dare, a challenge, an order, and a test.

"All right," I said flatly. He knows, very well, that I like a challenge and that I have trouble walking away from one.

Dammit. He's _really _dangerous.

"See that it's taken care of before I get back," he shrugged his robes on and gave me another look as he buttoned them up. He was laughing at me – but it was a relief to know he was at a point where he could laugh, so I smiled genuinely back at him.

"Yes, Speaker," a little sarcastic? Maybe, but I bowed my head politely and marched bravely into the kitchen. With a comment like that, it meant he'd be back relatively soon – which meant I needed to hustle. Not that I thought there would be any serious repercussions if I failed, but there would be –at the very least – a blow to my credibility.

And he'd get that annoying little smirk – the one look that makes me want to haul off and try to whale on him. And I have learned from Gogron's mistakes - watch out for paralysis spells.

Well, it's time to see just how well my skills of tact, diplomacy and (I hate to say it) subtle manipulation are.

I mean, what hell does he want me to _do_, anyway? '_Improvise' _he says,

Dammit – he 'sbeat me at his own game.

Why should that surprise me…I mean, hello, it _is_ his game…but still, I had thought I was getting better.

"Sari?" Tel called from the workroom.

"I'm still dry-eyed _and_ my normal color!" I called back automatically, and heard chuckles – I _sounded_ like I'd come off the worse from a bout of verbal sparring.

I considered a moment and then made a snap decision, with regards to Antoinetta. "Oi! Antoinetta!" I hollered.

Antoinetta was in the kitchen and looked up; garlic in hand, several lying chopped on a cutting board. I took the cloves from her and took the cutting board in my free hand and put them both out of her reach with a sigh.

Time to play hardball.

"Antoinetta, do you love Vicente at all?" I asked calmly.

Antoinetta goggled at me like I'd goggled at Lucien. "Of course I do! How can you…" she looked so shocked that I would suggest otherwise that I half wondered if she was about to have one of her scary moments, and try and gut me with the knife that was dangerously close to her hand.

"Then why, for the love of the Night Mother and of Vicente himself_,_ are you trying to kill him?" I was getting more comfortable with the ideas of Sithis and the Night Mother…I didn't consider myself indoctrinated, but she sounded like the kind of lady I could respect, admire, and be pleased to serve.

And the longer I'm here, the more the Dark Brotherhood seems like a family-run business, once the cousins are brought in, than anything else. Maybe it differs from Sanctuary to Sanctuary.

I will admit, though, that the concept of Sithis still made me a little uncomfortable, and I was glad to know that Gogron at least, didn't trouble himself about either topic. He was paid to kill people – he was happy as a clam. Tel was the one a couple steps short of being a fanatic. She's already aiming for the position of Listener.

I love Tel like a sister, but I don't think she'd make a very good Listener. In fact everyone _says_ they want the top job, _because_ it's the top job…but it sounds to me like there is very little field work involved. This conclusion was drawn from a conversation I'd had with Vicente just a day ago, about being a Speaker. You're almost totally removed from the field…and installed into something like bureaucracy. Which makes me wonder if Lucien is really happy being a Speaker in the first place.

Though, it doesn't sound like an appointment you'd turn down…

But I think, I rather suspect, that he misses being a field man. At least as a field man, you see results…as part of the paper chain…all you see is more paperwork, and that sounds like a pretty bad place for an intelligent, energetic person to be.

Vicente didn't agree outright, but he didn't tell me I was too far off the mark, either. Which makes me suspect I had inferred the truth more closely than I realized at the time, and Vicente just wasn't going to give me a free hand.

He likes to watch me think – so why on Nirn would he allow me to think _less_? _­– _and he also likes to watch Lucien and I match wits so he's not about to give either of us any more insight into the other than he can help, these days. Nope - no free hands from the vampire.

I love Vee to death – he's a great teacher.

"I…" Antoinetta stammered, looking shocked.

"No, Antoinetta, this," I shook the handful of garlic cloves at her, "is death in a bowl for Vicente. No – it's worse it's like a…it's like a contact _poison._ See these?" I walked over and rooted around in the pantry. "These are _onions_ –same family, but completely safe for our resident vampire," I handed her the onions. "You can _never_ have enough onions. _Use_ the onions..."

Whoo….Lucien is going to _hate_ me for this…!

I love onion soup, and that was what I was planning to teach her to make. If Lucien doesn't like it, he should have been more specific. And that's what I'll tell him, in that oh-so-sweet-and-innocent tone I've been perfecting, if he gives me crap about the onions. Hehehehe…we'll see how he takes it.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" Antoinetta asked blankly, looking dubiously at the onions.

I smiled, rather wickedly: the same thing you do with the garlic. Try to make soup. Of course, I could hardly say this to Antoinetta – no kicking of puppies, remember? "We'll improvise. For Vicente's sake…we'll improvise," I smiled and Antoinetta's mouth turned up a little at the corners. I think she might have recognized the source of the comment, even if she had missed the actual conversation.

--S--

"What's…all this…?" Lucien blinked owlishly, motioning to Antoinetta and myself. He looked suspicious and highly quizzical after following the sounds of a loud chorus of song echoing from the kitchen, and finding Antoinetta and I in full swing.

I beamed and Antoinetta reached up and nudged a straying lock of hair out of her face, rosy cheeked and smiling. I was covered in flour, potato peelings, and probably smelled like raw beef. "Dinner –Antoinetta and I are cooking," I said, stating the obvious so superbly that Lucien's eyes narrowed and I could just hear the comment, 'thank you, commander obvious' hanging in the air. "Tonight, it's kabobs, and sweet onion soup. No garlic, as instructed," I winked at him.

Lucien's mouth actually twitched and I smirked.

Yeah – and you though I couldn't do it. No charm spells required, Mr. Dubious. Hehehe.

"Out of the frying pan into the fire," Lucien responded smoothly and mock-fatalistically. "Don't let her get carried away, Antoinetta," Lucien smirked at me, indicating clearly he _knew _this comment would ruffle my feathers.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of grimacing – _who_ needs to be kept from getting carried away? "You should have time to clean up before supper!" I hollered as he vanished out the kitchen. I considered for a split second. "And _shave_!"

Antoinetta burst into laughter, snorting softly as she tried to stifle it.

"The man's positively scruffy," I said, making as much noise as Gogron does, though I was actually in a pretty good mood. I had gotten the last word in, and felt like I had held my own in this match of wits. Now, whether Lucien had been really trying or not, I don't know…I was pretty sure 'not'. But I was still amused.

Antoinetta was too, but for another reason. The 'scruffy' comment had sent her back into peals of laughter.

"A man that good-looking shouldn't hide behind his whiskers," I stated.

Now, I want to make it clear, I don't mind admitting that Lucien is attractive. It doesn't mean anything, though. I enjoy his company, I enjoy matching wits, but really, that's as far as it goes.

I'm not in denial, it's just how it is. Otherwise I'd be blushing and embarrassed and tripping all over myself, looking like an idiot.

And I _detest_ looking like an idiot.

"Are you kidding?" Antoinetta giggled. "It's an _insurance policy_ –so he doesn't get _mobbed_."

"Yeah, kind of hard to do your job when you're mobbed by adoring, devious fans," I said dryly, but I still grinned. "You think he heard any of that?"

Antoinetta shrugged.

It was plainly obvious that I didn't care, either way.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-One: Scheduled for Execution

--

"Ugh, my shoulder's killing me," I grunted as Telaendril and I slipped into the Sanctuary. I was tired and stiff and beginning to think – half joking - that life was finally getting back at me for all the smart-assed comments I've ever made.

However, my shoulder was actually a small problem, given current events. Two days ago, the Emperor Uriel Septim –the one I said would never kick off? –was _assassinated_. Him and all his sons. The entire Septim line, killed off by what we, the Family, thought were some kind of weird fanatics – mostly, this was based off intelligence, and the fact that we didn't do it. Of course, this didn't affect our business, too badly, but it affected general stability…

Well, I just contradicted myself. It affected business in that people were a little more desperate, in these uncertain times, and we were still dealing with a list of contracts as long road from Anvil to Imperial City – Vicente was actually having to write out on a calendar who was where, and make sure we got at least a day in between missions to rest, so we wouldn't run out of resources while on a contract, and get ourselves killed.

We were running a brisk business, but were no longer overburdened.

Reports from Imperial City indicated that the Elder Council had taken over, and was trying to hold things together, but it didn't look good. The Blades had failed their master, and were in shock and disarray. If there wasn't ample proof to the contrary, they might have suspected the Dark Brotherhood as being responsible and taken action against us – or rather, tried to. However, as I said, there was ample proof to the contrary.

Still, it was rather unsettling. The Emperor _and_ all his heirs? All at once? Sounds pretty organized, and a little too well-planned for your usual fanatics. I didn't like the sounds of it, or the implications, but what could I do? Worrying doesn't achieve anything.

"I thought it was dislocated for a while…and here I am, practicing with you…" I rubbed the shoulder in question, carrying my short bow slung over my uninjured shoulder.

The last contract I had been on had gone badly – I had been forced to make a less graceful exit than I would have liked, slipped on a rain slicked surface and had to flail, clamber and scramble, with the end result that I grabbed onto something with one arm, and had dangled like a fish on a line, my entire body weight jerking to a sudden stop, once I'd found a handhold.

"Well, you'll just have to remember to watch your footing – but if you didn't make mistakes like that, I'd swear your weren't human," Tel chuckled and patted my uninjured shoulder gingerly. "It isn't permanently damaged is it?"

"Well, it's not like I had a crazy Bosmer take a knife to it," I smirked and Tel chuckled. I had already had it confirmed that the joint was just sore, not permanently affected. "Ugh, I could really use a hot bath…who's cooking tonight?"

"Gogron, I think – but it might be Antoinetta. Thank goodness that girl came to her senses about the garlic…onions I can live with," Tel shook her head.

I chuckled but said nothing. I love onion soup, and Antoinetta loved making it, because people actually enjoyed it and paid her compliments now, instead of giving her crap.

Vicente head been quite correct about things in the Family settling down. In fact, he was in the common room when Tel and I entered, speaking to a gentleman in dark clothes. "Ah, Telaendril..." he turned and Tel smiled and hugged him.

"Mathieu, love, you're looking well," Telaendril said fondly.

I hung back, glancing at Vicente.

"And this must be Speaker Lachance's new protégé," the man called Mathieu bowed politely and held out his hand. I let him have mine and he simply stayed bowed for a moment, very politely, before letting go. "I don't believe I've heard you named, Mistress…?"

"Sarielle," I answered. Mathieu was younger than I by several years, and had a sort of suppressed energy about him – a sort of 'Person Who Gets Things Done'. He was of average height, and average looks – remarkable in that he was unremarkable.

And wore too much cologne. I can't imagine how he sneaks up on anything – what did you do, Brother? Take a bath in it?

"Mathieu used to be part of this Sanctuary, before he was picked up by one of the others," Tel smiled fondly. "Such good manners, it was a lovely change around here."

"Yes. I can see that," I smiled, feeling a little uncomfortable. I had forgotten what it was like to have a stranger in our midst – even if he was one of our Brothers. Then again, it _had_ been another busy week.

"Vicente speaks very highly of you, Sarielle," Mathieu said politely.

"And of you," I lied flawlessly, smiling. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but will you excuse me, please?" I asked politely, "I have business to attend…"

"Ah, of course. Speaker Lachance is nothing if not exacting, pardon me for delaying you," Mathieu inclined his head and I raised my hand in the salute of the Brotherhood, which Mathieu returned.

I turned and swept off, tossing my cloak almost out of habit to Tag, who came clattering up for it.

--S--

I was on my way to the bath, clean clothes and bath bag in one arm when Vicente appeared in the hall. "A moment, Sarielle," he said and stepped back into his office, waving me to follow.

I sighed, and knew that my bath was going to be postponed for quite a while. I walked into Vicente's office. "Should I just put these away, right now?" I asked, holding up my armload of belongings.

"Hardly," Vicente smiled. "I've a contract I'd like to give you…if you're up for a challenge."

I dropped my things in the other chair and leaned on the back of it. "A challenge?" I asked, interest piqued.

"Oh yes," Vicente smirked. He was playing with my head, but I couldn't say I minded.

I smiled. "What kind of challenge?"

"The sneaky kind. The kind that will make your name familiar to the Family…_if_ you could pull it off," Vicente added delicately.

I frowned. "Why not send Tel?"

"I'm offering it to you," Vicente said blandly.

"A wise man once told me to be careful what I volunteered for, and how deep I let myself get drawn in."

"My dear," Vicente smiled, "you violated that very good advice when you persisted in the terrible habit of eavesdropping on your higher-ups," but he said it rather sympathetically. "That card is no longer in your hand, nor is it in the deck."

"Damn."

"Indeed. Do you want this?" Vicente held up the white paper.

"All right…let's hear this contract," I grinned. I like trading barbs with Vicente – it's a learning experience. And he's right, I suppose – I did ignore his advice once. He's one of the few people I won't argue with.

"Is that 'all right, I'll take the contract' or 'all right, I want to hear about it first'?" Vicente teased.

"Which one's the right answer?" This goes back to Vicente's philosophy of 'if you don't know, you had better ask'.

"Ask first."

"Okay – what would I be doing?" I asked obediently.

"Have you ever broken out of jail?" Vicente asked.

"No," I chuckled a little nervously. "But I'm really curious now."

"How do you feel about breaking _into_ one?" I arched my eyebrows. He's having a lot of fun with this. "The _Imperial_ Prison, to be exact. We need a prisoner...silenced. Can you do it?" He was smiling.

I, on the other hand, was gaping like a fish. "You want me to break into the Imperial Prison to kill someone?" I asked, just to make sure we were on the same page. It was…audacious… I cracked a slow, if lopsided smile, braced for a joke, or ready for seriousness.

Vicente was obviously having a lot of fun watching my expression shift. "Yes, I believe that is the crux of the matter. You must infiltrate the Imperial Prison and kill Valen Dreth, a dark elf. He should be easy enough to eliminate, once you actually get inside."

"Killing him's the easy part…"I said, but I had to admit, the prospect was daunting…and enticing, at the same time.

"Well, now you know why I'm offering it to you, and not to Telaendril," Vicente said, looking over at the contract thoughtfully.

"Why? She's sneakier than I am…" it's true. I've learned a lot about being stealthy, but Tel has more practical application of the skill. But…she doesn't have chameleon spells.

Vicente smiled. "Because, you're my sort of assassin. Just like Lucien is."

"Huh?" I blinked. "I'm afraid that aside from the fact that we don't know when to shut up, and have a rather…unusual disposition towards verbal swordplay, I fail to see the similarity. Some days I wonder that he doesn't just leave his knife at home and rely on his tongue. It's sharp enough to do his job for him…" I mean it as a compliment, and as a joke.

"Then you've missed the point," but he didn't sound disappointed this time. "I like my killers intelligent, with a balance between blade, bow and magicka. People who don't depend overly on any one form of violence – subtle people, in other words. I train my pupils to appreciate the same."

"Still sounds more like you than me," I said.

"Confidence, Sarielle," Vincent reminded me gently.

"Okay, give me the contract," I said simply.

"Very good. As always, you fail to disappoint me. Your target, as I've said, is a Dunmer, Valen Dreth. He thinks he's safe in prison. Unfortunately for him, he is _tragically_ mistaken," Vicente's eyes gleamed slightly. "Did you hear the news?"

"Which?" I asked.

"About the emperor?"

"Oh yes, yes I know about that," I nodded.

"Well, apparently a prisoner recently _escaped_ from the prison, and made it all the way out, as Uriel did not, using a set of secret tunnels connecting to the Imperial City's sewer system. It's a perfect escape for an emperor in a besieged city – or under threat of assassination – and a perfect way inside for you."

I nodded and listened. I started to ignore my shoulder, and let my mind wander – which is to say I was already in the planning stages of this job. "Just outside the Imperial Prison is a grate that leads to the sewers. It has recently been tightly locked, but I have, here, a copy of the key for you," Vicente produced a brass key on a black length of silken cord, and handed it to me. I slipped it over my neck and let it dangle beneath my blouse, hidden from view. "Locating Dreth will not be difficult – he is in the cell directly across from the one you will enter the prison through."

"Okay. Guards?" I asked.

"More than usual – they've been posted within the passage between the sewers and the prison. Security is understandably tightened, with the Elder Council trying to prevent a panic. Valen Dreth has been imprisoned for many years. His tongue is sharp, but his body is limp and frail. He will prove an easy, pleasurable kill. The problem, as you said, is the guards."

"Well, I can deal with them, if I'm careful," I said a little doubtfully.

"Well, that's the complication, the crux, and the reason this could be your ticket to notoriety," Vicente continued, "You will receive a bonus if you fulfill the contract _without_ killing any of the guards."

"Hn…that is going to be a little difficult," I frowned. "I need to have a think," I said absently and walked back to the barracks and sat down on my bed, thinking hard. No one – and I mean no one – has infiltrated the prison in over...three hundred years. Meaning not even Vicente remembers the last time it was done…and I have the opportunity to try?

That advice I got from the family was many and varied. Gogron was shocked, and told me, point blank, that if I get seen, to get my ass out of there, like I had a hungry dragon charging after me. I never thought I'd see the day when Gogron of all people would advise me to run away.

Antoinetta looked at me and hugged me, with an expression indicating she was sure she'd never see me again, and that Vicente had signed my death warrant. "Sarielle, I have _been_ to that forsaken place," she said, her tone hollow and a little strained as she stood back at arm's length, knowing I'm still a little uncomfortable with being clung to. "Dear sister, do _not _let them see you…do not let them _catch_ you…" her bottom lip trembled and something darkened in her eyes. "Long did I languish there my youth, before the Brotherhood found me. The guards…they're strong, and cruel… so very cruel."

At which point I reassured her that I had no intention being seen, and that I would be back, and that I would be insanely careful. This usually would have cheered her up – for I said it a little more tactfully than just now – but not this time. "I'll be _very _careful," I promised and immediately decided that I _would_, in fact, take Gogron's advice.

Even if it meant I'd have a harder time trying to make a second attempt.

I didn't tell Tel what I was up to – somehow…well, I know she'd see it as a bit of an insult, that it was me going and not her. It was not that I was afraid it would damage our relationship…well, yes, I was…but better she find out after the fact – once I'm safely out of potentially hot water.

The prisoner's name, as a matter of interest, was Ailirah of Leyawiin - a Fighter's Guild girl. Not that this meant much to me, but I did wonder what a Fighter's Guild member was doing in the iImperial Prison to begin with.

Then again, what's a Mages' Guild associate doing in the Dark Brotherhood? Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, to me.

Given that my shoulder was still bothering me, I took my short bow, and quiver. I had bought both in Cheydinhal, when I'd begun practicing my archery a little more religiously. I was confident enough in my skill that I would be able to shoot Dreth from the inside of the cell opposite his.

--S--

I spent a few days at the Sanctuary before I left. Tel found out about my mission because Gogron – much as I love him –can't keep his big mouth shut. Contrary to my concern that she might feel I was stepping on her toes, she actually came in and sat with me while I was getting potions in order, and offered some very valuable insight.

"I'm a little jealous," Tel said to me as I lowered the heat on a potion of true invisibility. "But I'm glad that Vicente knows a good assassin when he sees one."

I looked up.

Tel smiled. "I have a little longer than you do, to make my mark, love," Tel said. "And I'm also quite a bit older, and mature enough that pride is not easily wounded."

"Can I ask you something really personal?"

Tel arched her eyebrows and grinned with only one side of her mouth – indicating she was quite sure that whatever I had on my mind was probably not personal enough to cause her discomfiture. She shrugged. "Shoot…hehe."

"About you and Gogron…doesn't it bother you…that he's going to grow older and older…and you won't?"

Tel's smile became vaguely melancholic. "It's true," she said softly. "But…I've learned not to look _that _far ahead. I'm happy. I keep Gogron happy…" she chuckled. "Most of the time."

I didn't ask. I didn't _want_ to _know_.

"You need to find yourself a sweetheart," Tel said blandly.

I shrugged. "It might be nice, the company…but with the way Vicente's been working me to the bone these days…I hardly have time to stop and change my mind."

Tel chuckled. "Speaking of time and shooting…may I add my two septims?"

I nodded.

"Don't bother trying to knife your mark. Just shoot him from across the hall – there's no need to compromise your cover, just so you can scare him before you kill him. There's no _point_."

"Gogron thinks there is…but Gogron also thinks I should run if I'm discovered."

"He's not wrong. Three hundred years since the last successful infiltration – and it wasn't even _us_. Then again, every other attempt seems to have gone in by the front door. Not exactly the way to sneak up on someone," she mused, twirling a loose lock of hair about a finger.

Indeed, though I was not sure whether the guard would be unbelievable worked up and vigilant, or unbelievably lax.

--S--

Truly invisible or not, I was taking absolutely no chances. The guards were not to be categorized generally –some were watchful, taking their duty to guard this passage seriously. Others were not. This seemed like the sort of job given to rookies, and people whose careers were going to a dead end.

Regardless, I never saw a flicker of detect life in their eyes, though several of them had nighteye spells in effect. I did too, though with me creeping along close to the ground and under the influence of an invisibility potion, it hardly mattered. It was harrowing, and I now knew _exactly_ why Vicente had picked me, out of all the other, more qualified Family members.

I don't panic. I've got nerves like steel, particularly when the stress is on. I've got invisibility potions and chameleon spells…

Well, I say 'I don't panic' the truth is, I simply repress the impulse to do foolish things. I refuse to let my actions be dictated by panic. Panic makes you careless, and it _will _get you caught. I make a conscious effort to be in control, at all times. I don't know where I picked up this mindset – I can't account for it, except that I have always stood up to tough questioning well, and have refused to let panic blow my careful plans.

Are all perfectionists like that?

I digress – sneaking through the Imperial Subterrane took most of my skills and I had to keep careful track of whether or not my potions were wearing off – a little hard to do in the dark and with nighteye activated. You see, with spells and potions of invisibility, it doesn't just stop operating. It fades, wears off, like anything else. You start to see bits of yourself, and then you know you have to re-up the spell, or chug another potion…before you get caught.

All my potions were tucked carefully into my belt –I had far more than I thought I would need, plus two extra – just in case I ran into unexpected trouble. But the shadows fell heavy through the whole range of passages and although the guards were jumpy, fortunately for me, they knew they were jumpy.

Thanks to this, the time I had to flatten myself against a wall to avoid a meandering guard, having a conversion with his friend, and stood up straight – bumping my head on and rattling the contents of said shelf – they dismissed it out of hand, after a brief investigation.

Fortunately, the guard who was unknowingly shepherding me around, unseen but still solid, stopped his lumbering about long enough for me to duck, tumble and dance away from him, and to the door that would lead further. I was waiting for them to hear my heartbeat as I crouched off to one side of the doorway- lest it open and knock into me – but they did not. They attributed the noise to nerves, rats, and the general bad ambiance of the place.

I was relieved beyond words, and continued my progress.

I was glad to reach the empty cell – though I had to be very careful, because the hall wasn't empty. The cell was long and narrow, and I crept forward, crouched as low as I could, using my hands to help balance. It was like being a badly-shaped cat, almost.

"I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful cries for help..." the guard was saying, as if he were remembering 'the good times'.

I grimaced: I may be an assassin, but I'm not a bully. And this guard was certainly a bully –and I was tempted for a few seconds to put an arrow right between his armor plates…

But then again, why blow the possibility of breaking of a three-hundred-year-old record just for one idiot guard? Even though Antoinetta might approve, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I rolled my eyes and pulled an arrow free from my quiver and proceeded to coat its tip with poison. All this I had to do by feel – as I couldn't see myself. Fortunately, the process was virtually soundless – the guard and Dreth were bickering too loudly to notice anything soft or subtle.

"Filthy cur!" Dreth snapped, "I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it," he laughed, a getting-close-to-cracking titter. "Not a damn thing, _n'wah_!"

"Yeah, well," the guard said. I looked up at this – it sounded like something I'd say…though the situation would probably be quite different. "What's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday," there was malicious amusement in the guard's tone.

"Eleven! _Eleven years_," Dreth shrieked and threw himself against the bars, angrily, "in this _rat-infested hole_! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

The guard was silent a moment, probably giving Dreth some kind of dubious look. Then he gave a soft 'hn' of grim amusement, and he lowered his voice. "Oh yeah? And where're you gonna go, huh? What'll you _do_? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You _belong_ in that cage," and there was much conviction in the guard's tone.

Where do they dig these people up? Seems to me the some of the guards should be on the other side of the bars…with the rest of the animals…oh well, I plan to have a long career, maybe this guard will piss off the wrong people, and we'll meet again. Or he'll walk down the wrong alley, or something. You never know.

Some say the Night Mother has a sense of humor geared towards the ironic.

"I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!" Dreth snapped so angrily he actually sprayed slobber all over the place. He was almost frothing at the mouth and the guard backed up, so as to avoid the sticky strands.

Gross.

"Riiiiight," the guard said mockingly, "And you'll be _rich_, too. Oh, and you'll become a _king_! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be _back_. You lot _always_ come back..." and this time, it was simple certainty. As far as he was concerned, an inescapable fact.

Well, he was probably right. The 'mer seems to have a bit of a temper, doesn't he?

"You'll see, you Imperial dog! _S'wit_! _N'wah_! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!" he ended in a high-pitched shriek and cackle that echoed loudly in the stone halls of the prison.

"All right, all right – keep it down…I'm tempted to let you out right now if you'll just shut up..." the guard grunted. And within a few minutes he had left, the door at the top of the stairs clanging.

Dreth continued to rant, to fume and to plot to himself, withdrawing to the back of his cell. I suppose in a place like this, you take whatever noise you can get. Though, if it was an attempt to keep madness at bay, I think it wasn't working. However, he was also huddled in the very back of his cell, and even with nighteye and detect life spells, it would be hard to navigate the bars.

I frowned and then stood up, and took a steadying breath. I'd have to coerce him to come closer, so I'd have a clear shot. I'd need a clean shot – if I missed…I'd be in trouble. I readied bow and arrow, and pulled the arrow back to my ear, fighting the tension in the bowstring, and aimed. "Valen Dreth," I breathed huskily, just loud enough that my voice would carry – bring the quarry to the bars. I had spoken very quietly, but in the prison, it carried, even through Dreth's rant.

He fell silent, and his life force waited, shimmering softly.

"Valen Dreth," I repeated, a little louder.

Slowly the 'mer got to his feet.

I swallowed and pursed my lips, resisting the urge to let the arrow fly prematurely.

Patience.

The shot was perfect. It would take him in the throat and that would be the end of it. I stilled the shakes of the muscles in the arm holding the arrow back and sighted in one last time as the 'mer reached the bars and looked around for the source of the mysterious, disembodied voice.

"Hello? Who calls?" he asked, but his voice was soft with suspicion, fear…though fear because he knew for whom the voice would work, or fear that he had finally gone round the twist, I didn't know.

This shot's going to be sweet as jam…

"Goodbye, Valen Dreth," I said, feeling a little melodramatic and I let the shot fly.

Dreth was halfway through a gasp that would turn into a cry for help, but it remained stillborn.

Thunk. The sound was soft, and the elf tried to gasp as the poison rushed into his veins, silencing him. Killing him as it drained away his life. I banished my chameleon spell and opened the door. A prisoner had escaped from here – followed the ill-fated Emperor out – and the guard hadn't even relocked it. The door to the cell I was in swung open silently –a hint that this cell was special. I expected Dreth's cell door would creak.

I strode calmly across the hall, feeling my heart thump fast and strong in my chest as I knelt and carefully, quietly, picked the lock of Dreth's cell. Since I was here, I decided to make this look good. Getting out should be easy, compared to getting in.

Dreth was still alive but only barely - the poison I had used afforded him no chance of survival – though he was unable to scream, to cry out, to breathe. He was fading fast.

I opened the door and it did not creak as I carefully balanced its weight, so that I held it and the hinges did not. The hinges – the possibly treacherous hinges – remained silent.

I knelt beside him and smiled and took a leaf out of Gogron's book: make your impressions, even when the only ones who see them are the soon-to-be-dead. "Shh," I put a finger to my lips and continued to smile as I reached down to check his pulse, to feel the beating of his heart slow then stop.

His pupils pinpointed and then he was gone, his gaze glazing over, going glassy. Death is messy – I won't go into detail – but I ignored it. By this time I had seen quite enough that it no longer affected me in the slightest.

Hmm – maybe I just didn't do it right…but I felt oddly…oddly what? Not dirty. I felt _attached _to the crime. I'm not used to that. I'll have to forego snappy comments in the future – I didn't like the…the taste it left it my mouth about the whole job, in general.

Well, Gogron might like delivering snappy comments, but I don't. I pulled the arrow free of Dreth's corpse rather carelessly, and then stepped out of the cell, relocked it –there's a puzzle for the over-lax guards – closed the door to the cell with my escape route and started the long journey home.

Fortunately, the guards were, shall we say, lax in their duties, still jumpy, still nervous.

I was in a state of hyper-clarity, because I was determined not to ruin my own escape. So careful, so attentive – I was almost more paranoid and careful going out than coming in. It wasn't until I was on the road back to Cheydinhal, and visible again, that I permitted myself a smile and a cackle.

I had done it.

The world would never know…but _I_ would. And the Family would know someone had…and that was enough. It didn't matter if they never learned my name.

Knowing the truth was enough for me.

I, Sarielle of Cheydinhal, Slayer and Sister of the Dark Brotherhood, have infiltrated the Imperial Prison, and killed one of the inmates. Moreover, I got out again _completely undetected._

I am now ready for the rest of my life.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-Two: Love, and Love Potions

--

To be honest, the idea of Tel and Gogron mucking about while the rest of us are out doesn't bother me. What bothers me is when it rains all the way from the turnoff for Chorrol to Cheydinhal (I didn't feel like swimming, so I had to take the long way around), and I get home and they're right in the middle of things – so I can't even get to my room – without a lot of embarrassment –to get some dry clothes.

Fortunately, the doors are thick, and I never actually heard anything -thankfully.

It was Smethwick who warned me that Gogron and Tel were 'busy'. And it did not take an archmage to figure out what that meant.

So I flopped- soaking wet and irritable into an armchair before the fire and pried my boots off. Fortunately, my feet were just cold, the boots are waterproof, for which I was very grateful. The only problem is, it's the inside that's waterproof, so the outside leather gets wet and when it gets wet, it gets _heavy_.

Unfortunately, I was just too shy to just march in an interrupt. I have to live with Gogron and Tel after this, and I'd like to be able to do so without wincing and shuddering every time I see them.

I also ached in my shoulder, from the original injury, and from having to use it to shoot, first for practice with Tel, then for real with Dreth. So I worked myself into quite a state.

And then there was the sheer inconvenience of not being able to get on with getting cleaned up.

Shuffles brought me a towel, though, and I stood up and he took as many of my wet things as I could comfortably take off, without feeling exposed- including my boots. I unbraided and began to towel off my hair, bending at the waist so I got it all, and didn't have it hanging all over my wet back, getting wet all over again.

I honestly didn't really get that upset with Gogron and Telaendril. What I was really getting ranked about – cold and wet and inclined to _become_ rankled – were my parents – and it annoyed me further that I should be annoyed with them in the first place. See what bad logic cold feet can get you into? Honestly, and this was what the crux was, I had scarcely thought of them for several weeks, and had thought I was past all that.

It was one of the reasons I was becoming a little more open minded to the idea of the Night Mother as more than just some…some kind of figurehead. Most of the others certainly seemed to think she was almost…real – still leading us, still powerful, and still calling the shots.

It was, snapped that part of me which gets so angry so quickly, the temper I work to repress in favor of being a little calmer, a little more analytical, just like being back my parent's house.

But having to put everything on hold for someone else's…make out session – I'll be polite…dredged up memories as unpleasant as dregs of over-strong tea. My parents _both_ were sleeping around – I'll admit it, they certainly weren't making attempts to be secretive about it to anyone but each other, and 'society'. Though that didn't a work so well, because who do you think their playmates _were_? At least my father had the decency not to do it in the house…unlike my trollop of a mother.

I resisted the urge to throw something.

I am convinced that I was a mistake. There's no other explanation. In fact, we actually had that talk, and that's not something you just say in the heat of temper, which is what made me so certain. It was one of the most honest things they ever said to me – hurtful, yes. A slap in the face – definitely.

That was why I slipped them both love potion and watched the effects with great amusement.

--S--

Fortunately, I was just toweling my hair for a second time when the door to the barracks opened, and Tel and Gogron stumbled out, both looking a little disheveled. "Gog…oh…." I hung the towel around my shoulders, my hands tangled in the ends and sighed.

Thank goodness – nothing helps get out of a bad mindset, a downward spiral, like hot bath.

"Sari..." she started as I walked past, and then she tailed after me.

"Oh…heya Sari..." Gogron smiled a little uncomfortably, flushing purple, from his neck to the top of his head, so he looked like he'd fallen face-first into a vat of dye – the orc version of a blush – as I eased past him. There was an unmistakable trace of smell on the air that made me crinkle my nose. Why do they have to do _that_ on _this_ side of the barracks? What's the matter with _Gogron's_ room?

"Sari…how long were you...uh…waiting?" Telaendril asked gently.

"Long enough," I looked over at her. "Look, I don't care about you two sneaking some snuggle time, I really don't," I said tiredly, "all _I_ care about are dry clothes and a bath. And yes, I'm fine, thanks," I flipped my footlocker open and then glared at Telaendril. "And if I find out you were using _my_ bed…there's going to be a problem," but I grinned and shook my head.

I seem to have terrible timing.

Telaendril actually blushed - turned fantastically crimson - and shook her head. "I'm not _that_ crass, love."

"_Good,_" I said fervently and sighed. "Don't worry – this is nowhere near as bad as my mom – she made _no_ secret of when she had a playmate over...not to me anyway," I grunted. "Makes it hard for me to blush these days…fetching trollop, fetching _deadbeats_," I grunted.

"Oh?" Telaendril said, looking wrong-footed. "You…" Tel stopped. "Sari?"

"My parents _both_ were so wrapped up in cheating on each other, it's amazing I have any discerning taste in men at all, myself," I grunted, glaring at the foot of my bed. "But, I told you how I dealt with that –remember?"

"Yes, I do…better go get warmed up, you look absolutely frozen," Tel said gently.

I smiled and realized that I had _stuff _all over my bed.

"You left it in Vicente's office before you left for the Imperial City. How'd that go, by the way?"

I shrugged, "It's done…" but I had begun to grin faintly.

Tel wrapped an arm around my shoulders and then fingered my hair. "Go get cleaned up…let me comb your hair, Sari, once you've got it clean. It's such a miserable mess, and washing it will only make it worse," I could tell that Tel was a little more aware that I was not really upset for the reasons I seemed to be, more than Gogron was. "You can tell me all about it," and within minutes she gave me a little push, for me to get on with whatever I was going to do.

Eventually, Tel had me sitting on my bed, and was sitting behind me with a comb in hand, straightening my overly tangled hair. She had been right –scrubbing it had made the tanglsd worse, and in my present state of mind if I had done the task myself, I'd have given up and lopped it all off.

Mahina – my mother - used to do this, every once in a while, but she used to babble – so much so that I did not really look forward to having my hair set to rights by her.

Tel, however, hummed softly when I wasn't talking, and was very careful and very patient – didn't tear my hair once. And the comb was a lovely little thing. It was a little wider than her hand and made of a smooth polished wood, set with round or oval-shaped pieces of malachite. It smelled so lovely, and so familiar…

"What _is _that made of?" I asked finally, turning where I sat. "I should know that scent…It's driving me crazy."

Tel smiled and held out the comb for me. "It's sandalwood," she answered.

I held the wood close to my nose and breathed its fragrance deeply. Sure enough – I had a little jewel box of sandalwood in my parent's house. I never knew where it came from , I think it had been in the family for a long time. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the fragrant wood. But it wasn't the jewelry box I was thinking of…I'd smelled this a little more recently…but I couldn't put my finger on where, it was highly distracting…

I was only sure that whatever it had been, whenever it had been, it had been a passing scent, the lingering hint of someone's presence.

--S--

I kept my rather grim mood to myself as best I could, but found that I was retreating from company, by and large, more often than usual. Business had slacked off to a trickle, so on top of being unhappy, I was also bored, after having been on the go for so many weeks.

Which meant I took to working long hours in the workroom, or long hours restocking it. Things in the empire were settling into a state of nervous anticipation. No sign of the escaped Fighters' Guild member, no word from the Elder Council on what was going on.

It was not the sort of climate that made people comfortable, but equally, not the sort to induce panic. I think we all rather suspected that this was not 'the end' of anything – it was a lull in activity. And though we all agreed upon this, no one was sure what the lull would lead to.

Nothing good, that much was certain.

But today's topic, according to Gogron was poison.

Lucien, Gogron, and I were up late, in the workroom. I was working silently off to one side, while Gogron sharpened a dagger the size of a short sword, sitting across from Lucien as he did so

Lucien had arrived just after dinner – but in time to catch leftovers before they went cold – and was now preparing for what he said was going to be another long week – for him.

"Poison is a tool for _females_," Gogron grunted – though he wasn't really being insulting. Or I didn't perceive it as an insult, because he's right. Why strong-arm someone when you can just remove them with a well-placed glass of wine?

But only if you can ensure the target gets the right glass, obviously.

"Now," I said mildly. I didn't smile, but I arched my eyebrows and glanced over at Lucien.

Lucien looked over and saw me looking at him and gave a soft laugh. "'Now' indeed: Gogron's not wrong, and you know it," which meant _he_ wasn't brewing a poison at the moment.

I shook my head and gave a wry laugh – Lucien I can get mad at. "Oh yeah?" I did know it, but that wasn't the point of the game.

"Of course –_you_, yourself, prefer poison, don't you?" Lucien asked idly as he paused his speech to frown at the rose petals he was grinding.

"Yeah…" damn. I know where this is going…I see it, and I just walked right into it.

Good one, Sari.

I am _so_ off my game.

Lucien looked up as if plucking a stray thought out of the air, "and you are a woman, the last time I looked at you."

I grinned here and Lucien's expression remained unperturbed. "Yeah well, don't look _too_ closely, or I'll take offense," bluff – and a bit of a tease. And the fetcher knows it…still, I had to smirk. I do love trading snappy comments. It helped break my grim mood a little, to have something like that to focus on. "So what is this? A love potion?" I asked, looking at the ingredients. He's not as obsessively methodical as I am – just more…'comfortable in the kitchen'. That's a good phrase.

"Not exactly," Lucien's mouth twitched and he looked up at me.

I knew what he was hinting at without acute mental acrobatics: first, that love potions don't actually create 'love', it just sounds socially acceptable. And two: that I seemed to strike him as the sort of girl innocent enough to blush at the thought or discussion of a _lust _position.

I wondered seriously how he had gotten _that _impression.

"Lust then – it's a useful tool," I shrugged. It's true, and I don't care – so long as it doesn't find its way into _my_ food. I glanced down at my ring – the usually deeply red stone had turned a sickly apple green, with the proximity to my own brewing poison.

"Very," Lucien agreed blandly.

I leaned on the table and looked thoughtfully at the ingredients. "Is this for personal use?" I asked innocently.

I didn't get a real answer, just a shrug and a smirk that did not quite fade.

"Hmm…I'll have to make sure I prepare my own food from here on in. Probably should warn the other girls too. Unless of course, you're seeking to discredit a rival…yeah, that'll be it…"I breathed softly, watching his expression. There had been a slight flicker…though what that meant, I was not entirely sure. "So –who's the unlucky one?"

I didn't get an answer. "Make yourself useful," he handed me the mortar full of rose petals and a pestle.

"Are you planning to add violet petals? Because they work better than other reagents, and have a longer duration," I said idly as I sat on the bench and began to grind the dried petals into dust.

There was a pause of activity. "Really? Do you think so?"

"I _know_ so – It's in _Apprentice's Apothecary_," I said. "But if you want to make it work _really_ well…you'll add a few drops of orange juice, the violets and the rose petals," I said, the orange juice is my own addition, and not in the _Apprentice's Apothecary_. The potion to which I'm referring is the infamous love potion I gave my parents, with such disastrous effects…for them. I know it works.

"Are you sure you didn't want to be a perfumer when you grew up?" Lucien asked delicately, but I knew I had surprised him.

Understandably, I was eager to keep that advantage. "Oh yes, quite – I'm allergic to most perfumes," I said blandly and continued grinding the petals into a pink and red powder – or as close to powered as I could get. "Like I said: orange and violet…and you can use either…" I considered, and he let me. "No, no 'either' to it. Use a drop or two of the juice from Gogron's favorite chili peppers…" I said.

"Do you want to mix this mess, or are you happy steering from there?" Lucien asked archly. I could almost see him jotting down mental notes to test later…I seriously hope I don't become his guinea pig, because as much as I like him…plus the pictures I'm getting in my head aren't exactly...well…you know…on top of which, it would make working together a little awkward too.

Yeah...my spine can stop tingling any time now…

"All you have to do is ask, boss-man," I said, using my new moniker for him. "Just remember: girls pay attention to these things earlier and longer than guys. You never know when plans need a little…help," I said delicately. And when Gogron and Lucien both made faces at me, I smiled. "I _did_ spend most of my teenage years in the Mages' Guild. You wouldn't believe the escapades mages get up to," or my parents –but that's another topic to make me go 'yeeeeeeshhh'.

Lucien hasn't heard – not from me at least –the kind of household I grew up in.

"Okay! I'm out of here!" Gogron said loudly, and shuffled off.

I watched him go. I wondered at this abrupt departure –then again, he may have just been running for cover. But he needn't have worried – my bad mood wouldn't explode, just because the usual game of one-up and wit got the better of me.

"So – you seem to be rather...intimately acquainted with this particular brand of potion. Dare I ask?" he _was_ asking, in Lucien fashion.

I looked at Lucien, rather surprised by the up-front question, and I was sure that it was more than simple curiosity. I shrugged, though and smiled grimly: it's a great story. "Well…okay. I've used it before. That's how I know it works," I said and reached back so I could toy with my braid.

"Obviously," he nodded, and this was just a prompt for me to continue, so I wouldn't feel like I was monologue-ing.

"Not on myself," I said, my lips pursed.

Lucien pursed his lips too, but I suspect he was trying not to laugh at my expression, which was mingled distaste and amusement.

"I used it on my parents."

"I'm sorry?" he blinked owlishly.

"Yeah, my parents," I repeated. "I always knew that I was a mistake…you know, the one 'oops'. I'm surprised Mahina didn't abort me…" I swallowed. Such a narrow miss, I'm sure. "…and she and my father made the mistake of confirming it for me one night. She said I was her biggest mistake…and my father agreed. Well, it didn't hurt," I shrugged, lying through my teeth – I refused to _let_ it hurt anymore. "But I couldn't just let that kind off slight go, you know? So I got even."

But, just because you know something doesn't mean that you won't feel it when the party in question confirms it for you. It had hurt. Cut deep. I was still healing from the wound…and I hadn't even known it. Not until Vicente had pointed it out and basically asked 'hey, shouldn't you get that looked at?'.

Lucien nodded once, his expression unreadable.

"So I did a little research and finally I spiked their wine. Imagine their shock when they woke up the next morning, especially next to each other. I hope the memory of that night gives them both _nightmares_..." I ended in a low snarl. I continued to grind the rose petal dust grimly and then handed off the mortar and pestle to Lucien, who took both.

I went back to cutting up cattails with a certain vehemence channeled into precision.

"But that wasn't all of it, was it?" Lucien prompted rather gently, almost sympathetically, though I wasn't sure why he should feel that way. I never asked what sort of family he had, or why he joined the Brotherhood so young…only fifteen…I wasn't sure I wanted to know. But from his expression and tone, I rather suspected his family had been…all right.

My stomach dropped down to my toes and I looked up at him sharply, and mouthed silently for moment, shocked past words. I looked way and sighed, abandoning my cattails, and pulled my braid over my shoulder again to fiddle with the end of it.

You see, Lucien is one of the very few people – possibly the only one, end of story - who had spotted that my attempt to punish my parents for that verbal blow was not so easy, so limited and petty as I made it look. I never actually said what the _real_ aim was.

The repercussions for such a blow as I took had to be far more lasting, so I felt – or should have been.

"You're a little too smart for your own good. Yeah – the idea was to get my mom knocked up with her husband's kid," I said quietly, so my voice wouldn't carry. "In most families, it would be a good thing…they never found out – or rather, couldn't prove - that I was the one who'd spiked their drinks. They probably thought they'd just had one too many over dinner…they didn't really acknowledge that I was an intelligent and educated young woman…" I stopped and felt my expression cloud. "…in some ways they were unbelievably stupid."

And I voiced aloud a question that I don't ask aloud very often. "Why _have _me if they didn't _want_ me?" this last was a rhetorical question, and one I have asked for many years. There isn't an answer – only supposition. I wished heartily that I had been delayed on the road back from the Imperial City, so I wouldn't have to deal with these dredged up problems. I had thought myself so close to sloughing them off, like a snake does its skin...

I think that Mahina's pregnancy with me occurred when she was of a mood to have a pet, and decided a kid would suffice.

"So why not just kill them?" Lucien asked, matter-of-factly.

I know a test when I hear one, but thankfully, it's a test I can pass without trouble. "Because it would be like killing sheep. There's no point," I answered.

Lucien nodded approvingly, and then slowly stopped. "It's their loss," Lucien reached over and gripped my shoulder tightly, reassuring. "fools that they were."

"Thank you," I sighed heavily and reached up to pat the hand on my shoulder, before he withdrew it. Lucien is a person who is very careful and conscious about other people's space.

I blessed him for it – I didn't want anyone trying to crowd me just now.

"Don't. It's only the truth."

I smiled a little and looked up at Lucien. "Still – thanks."

Lucien smiled and nodded.

It wasn't until after he left that I realized he'd left the potion in its little glass bottle on the table, clearly marked as to its contents. Without further notices to 'leave it alone' I put it in the potions cupboard, easily in view in case it really was a mistake. That's not the sort of thing you just leave lying around, after all, and considered.

Did he really forget it…or was he just trying to get in my head?

_Dammit_! You know, that would _not_ surprise me in the _least_…I let my guard down for one minute, have a bad day and that opportunistic little fetcher's right there _to take advantage of it!_

But…I can't get too mad, I cracked a smile, something hadn't done properly in several days. I can play that game too. Just give me time.

But the bad mood broke, and even if I had definitely been manipulated by the master –_again_. I can only console myself that it takes a little longer, every time.


	24. Chapter 24

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty Three: The Assassinated Man

--

"Hey, Vee? Do you have anything for me?" I poked my head into Vicente's office several days later, and nearly walked right back out.

"Yes –as a matter of fact…I think you're the only one I can _trust_..." Vicente said in mild distaste, scowling at a contract.

"Vee? You do know I'm talking to you right?" I asked, bemusedly, letting myself into his office. It's rare to see Vicente that distracted.

"Huh?" Vicente looked up. "Oh, Sarielle…I have something for you – a contract," he said, apparently not fully realizing I'd been here long enough to know that.

I grinned – he's not usually so…unobservant. Must be a bad contract. "Bad day?" I asked innocently.

"Fetching Breton…" Vicente succinctly grunted to the contract and scowled at it.

"What's the matter?"

"I need an assassin with some _patience_, a whole shipload of professionalism, and you've just been drafted. Take a look at this," he almost threw the contract at me.

I took it and blinked. I, by now, understood that the handwriting on the contract was not necessarily the Listener's –it was just his seal at the bottom. The contract was actually written up by the Speaker who arranged it – in this case it was Lucien. I'd recognize his elegant scripts just about anywhere, though it looked like he'd been having a little trouble with the pen and his paper.

I scanned the paper and began to frown. "Is this a joke?" I asked, looking at Vicente, and motioning offhandedly to the contract. It had to be…but…

He was sitting with his elbows on his desk, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes in a very world-weary manner. "I wish it was," he said a little despondently. "Truly, this business has lost its luster, if we're supposed to be doing this sort of dirty work…I can't believe it. Next thing you know, we'll all be adventurers, saving the empire for the Emperor, the greater good and apple pie. Ugh…"

"Oh, I'm sure it won't be _that_ bad," I said reassuringly, then scowled at the contract, back on topic. "Why'd Lucien take it?"

"Because the Listener sent him to make contact with the little _s'wit_," Vicente grunted from the sanctuary of his arms.

I perched on the arm of Vicente's chair and put a hand on his back, reassuringly. "It can't be that bad."

"Can't it? Lucien said he was an annoying little buggar," Vicente grunted.

"I can handle annoying," I said blandly. "Don't worry Vee," I said soothingly – it was a little worrisome to see Vicente this worked up. Though I suspected that Motierre was only part of the problem, I didn't ask any further questions. I could guess the sorts of things that would perturb Vicente. "I'll handle it for you," I assured him – especially seeing my name circled off in the margin with a question mark, before Lucien's initials. "Professional patience, all the way."

Vicente sat up straight – careful so as not to dislodge me from my precarious perch and patted my back in return. "You're a trooper, Sarielle."

I chuckled. "No, I'm just going to use this as an opportunity to practice my gameface – you know, scary-bitch assassin, and all that," I winked at Vicente.

I looked back to the contract. I had been here long enough to know that there were very specific rules by which we played – contrary to what the Morag Tong seems to think – and one of those rules was that it was a gold-for-blood business. The client paid the gold and bought the contract, the Dark Brotherhood killed the mark and provided blood. Gold for blood, like 'Sithis demands' type stuff. We don't mess with this arrangement, on our side – it would be bad.

This contract, on which I was being sent was not only unusual, it was also one with a time limit. I had to be in Chorrol by tomorrow night – not a hard ride, but if I didn't get a move on, it could be a very long day.

The contract, however, left as bad a taste in my mouth as it had Vicente's thought I didn't show it. This is why.

The client was a man by name of Francois Motierre, a Breton, and the target was…Francois Motierre, said Breton. Apparently, he was desperate to fake his own death, and had made arrangements with the Family to do it. Now, I've already said we are a gold-for-death business – the little fetcher had served up his own _mother_ to provide the blood. Gold was paid, blood would be taken care of by us. And when I say 'us' I could not help but think that Lucien sounded a little disgusted by the whole set up, even though it was only written on paper.

Apparently, the little fool, Motierre, had gotten into trouble by owing money to the wrong people –and now he needed to make a quick and seemingly permanent escape from their clutches. Personally, my sympathy was rather limited – more so than usual - it sounded like Motierre knew what he was getting into, but he went and did it anyway.

But still, what a coward, serving up his mother to die in his place. I was glad that I did not seem to be stuck with that part of the assignment – not that I couldn't do it, but Vicente was right. This contract was a farce – and a slap in the face. I was mollified, however, by being the one trusted to do it and do it right –because obviously if Motierre died for real, I would not only have bungled the mission, but the entire contract.

"You'll need these," Vicente said with a sigh, and pulled from beside his desk a silver box, which he opened and produced a silver dagger. It was very simple, delicate, pretty, and totally non-magical – I could tell without touching it. "It's been coated in a very rare poison, called languorwine – do you know it?"

"No, no I don't," I said, as Vicente pulled the knife out of its box and wrapped it in its purple silk wrap and handed it to me.

"Languorwine is, as I said, a rather rare and remarkable poison, it will simulate death. Slash Motierre with it, and he will appear to drop dead. He will clear the details with you, upon your arrival. Also, you'll need this," Vicente handed me a small blue glass bottle. "The antidote…I'm not finished," Vicente reached over to take hold of my sleeve before I could walk off to get ready to go. "You'll be in Chorrol – swing south to Kvatch, after you've taken care of Motierre. There are a few documents that need to be picked up –and as you'll be that general way," Vicente shrugged.

I nodded amiably. I didn't mind – it would be a nice little side trip – I've never actually been in Kvatch, though I've heard it's a nice place to visit. Maybe I'll swing by the arena and catch a few matches. "Hey – who's taking care of the mother?" I asked, waving the contract.

"Lucien – he's already seen to it," Vicente's expression indicated he was sure Lucien had not been amused.

"I'll bet he scared the shit out of Motierre," I said idly, tapping the contract against my chin thoughtfully.

"Undoubtedly," Vicente said. "I don't think he's happy about it."

I chuckled – 'he' was of course, Lucien. Neither of us much cared what Motierre thought, I was sure. "Well, when the Speaker's happy, no one's happy," I giggled, "Still if he scared Motierre shitless, that's hard act to follow."

It was Vicente's turn to laugh. "Now, you're not allowed to give him a heart attack Sarielle."

"But I can mess with his head…right?" I grinned at Vicente, who was grinning back. The prospect of Motierre's impending discomfort seemed to be restoring his mood.

"I wish you would – the little fool," Vicente shook his head. "He must understand that we are not in the habit of bailing out his ilk. _Especially_ not like this," Vicente shook the contract. "I can only hope he runs out of family to die for him very quickly."

"Will do," I grinned, and chuckled.

Motierre is going to learn a very valuable lesson, methinks.

--S--

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived in Chorrol – well within the window where I was supposed to arrive. I had an address and the instructions that I should come in through the back –unseen, if at all possible.

No one saw me enter the city, because I wore a chameleon spell the whole time, except when I dropped off my horse at the stables. I had dressed the part, and I was hoping to give Motierre a real scare – to drive home the point that the Dark Brotherhood is not a 'bail you out quick' service, and should not be summoned for such a thing a second time.

I'm sure Lucien had done a wonderful job impressing this on Motierre. I was just…reinforcement.

I smiled – I had even gone to the trouble to darken my eyes and paint my lips, with the end result that I looked far too pale, dressed all in black, with a blood-red mouth and eyes that leapt out from dark sockets. Ghastly, I believe is the word.

I had done this last bit before leaving the stables – hence why I did not want anyone to see me. I smiled to myself – let's see if the power of perception is going to be with me today – I know Motierre doesn't have much fortitude. He wouldn't have summoned us if he had.

The house was easy to find.

My instructions were to 'come on in' by the back – but the door was locked. To my consternation, I considered. I could knock…but that wouldn't drive the message home.

I unlocked the door with lock picks. The lock was fairly good, but I was getting good myself – and then opened it silently –and kicked the door so it banged open. There was a yelp from upstairs, and I turned and trotted up, following the sounds.

I found Francois Motierre hiding in a closet. "Peekaboo, I see you!" I said smoothly, smiling sadistically. It worked like a charm – Motierre's eyes got round as septims and he started to tremble. "I'm very pleased to meet you," I lied as I continued to smile enigmatically – or perhaps sinisterly - at the highly nervous Motierre

"You…you're the one, aren't you?" he looked me over, his eyes lingering on the stark red lips and the cat-green eyes. "The one he...Speaker Lachance…said he'd send…he said..." Motierre paused his jittering as I stepped back gracefully so he could get out of the closet. He shuffled forward, still taking me in.

Yes – I seemed to match his idea of an assassin, a little bit at least.

"Ah – and what did dear Lucien say?"I asked with feigned benign interested and my best sadistic smile. Whatever Lucien said could be as much of a lie as my sadistic-killer routine here, but who cares?

Perception is everything and this fellow is _annoying_ in the extreme…and a coward to boot. Selling out his own _mother_ – I ask you. I can see why this contract is leaving a bad taste in people's mouths. Personally…I think we should just put this little twit out of his misery – but that would be unprofessional. And you know how much we, the Brotherhood, pride ourselves on our professionalism.

And I had promised Vicente I would take care of this.

"Uh…not much…just that I could expect you to…to do your job with…with finesse and uh…accuracy," Motierre gulped before 'accuracy', as if he knew what a distasteful contract this was – his eyes raked over my cloaked form, probably looking for the knife, but I didn't show him the blade, merely smiled at him.

Blood and gold had already been provided, which leaves only the service to be rendered. It's business. I don't have to like it.

And I didn't.

Which was why I was having so much fun scaring the silly Breton witless – well, more witless than he already was. "Oh," I made a bit of a face, and remembered not to bite on my lip, so I simply bit the tip of my tongue, gently, thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound much like Lucien at _all _– are you _sure_ it was him?" I'm playing with the mouse. I should knock it off, but this one's under my skin. What a coward. With a little more effort on my part, he's going to be standing in a puddle…

Should I expend the effort, do you think?

"Well...he _did_ say that you'd be a…a lovely young lady…and…ahem...quite gentle…" Motierre eyed me, as if wondering what sort of double meanings or inner jokes might be entombed in that statement.

"Oh, now _that's_ Lucien, most definitely. Ever the charmer, always knows what a girl wants to hear," I gave a sort of smug giggle that set Motierre's hair on end. I saw it react. And what a good way to phrase it – that could be Antoinetta, Tel or me.

I'd like to point out that it would also be Lucien-style double-talk. 'Lovely young lady' I may be. By 'quite gentle' he means 'she won't rip your heart out when she's supposed to be faking your death'…or rather, that I won't leave too nasty a scar. Finesse, Sari…that's the ticket. I can't guarantee the 'small scar' thing, but I can promise I won't slit his jugular when I'm not supposed to.

"Now, let's run over the plan – I'm here. I'm here to pretend to kill you – for whose benefit?" I asked idly, as if I had all day.

I spotted a chair and sat down, careful not to snag my cloak –which I still had not taken off, crossing my knees and settling down like a queen in a throne.

Motierre continued to goggle at me, and stammer. "Well...I ah, borrowed quite a bit of gold…you know, from some, uh…underworld types…but not the same type of underworld as you…"

"If you don't stop jabbering, I'm going to lose my temper," I said a little more coolly. "Stick to the facts, Motierre, or I might forget myself – and the Speaker wouldn't like that."

Well, he wouldn't. I wouldn't. What I really wouldn't like was all the shit I'd get about it later, if I did forget myself – fortunately, that's not a genuine danger.

"I...I missed a payment. Now they don't even want the money. They say I insulted them! They've sent an enforcer to kill me! His name is Hides-His-Heart, and he's on his way here _now_! _Tonight_! That's why I hired you! So you can fake my death!" Motierre began to breathe very hard and very rapidly.

"Calm down, Motierre. Now _I'm_ going to tell _you_ how this is going to happen," I stood up, and Motierre did calm marginally. I think just having someone with a forceful personality calling the shots would keep him from losing his head. "Now I'm going to give you a little nick with my little knife, and then I'll be back to get you in a day or two...don't worry about the enforcer...Hangs-His-Head or whatever…" Hides-His-Heart, but who cares? "If he can catch me, he deserves to kill me. Now…let's get ready, hmm? I want to make this quick...if you take my meaning." I leered.

Motierre paled as I drew the delicate silver knife Vicente had given me. It _is_ a delicate little thing, a lady's weapon – and I fully plan to return it. After all, it means I didn't get careless while trying to escape. I walked down the stairs, trusting Motierre to follow me, and I stopped halfway up. "You go ahead," I let him edge past me, to stand several steps down.

I reached forward, to make sure that I could catch hold of Motierre, and then leaned forward, so our faces were close together, and I was in danger of toppling forward if I leaned any further. I was close enough that Motierre would be able to smell my soap. "Whatever you do," I warned, holding his gaze. "Don't flinch."

Motierre froze, trembling head to foot as I back up a little, just within arm's reach, and shifted a little to my left – I have to make this look good, after all.

We waited – and Motierre was too worried to complain, whether we stood there six minutes or six hours. We were there for awhile, but in order for it to look good, I was willing to endure the minor discomfort.

--S--

It was dusk when things started to happen.

There came a pounding at the door and Motierre gasped.

I motioned him to silence and held up a finger as he made as if to move and shook my head. Don't you _dare_ foul this up, you little rat_._

"Motierre! I know you're in there!" the pounding became a little more persistent, and then stopped. I readied the spell I would need in my off hand and held the dagger, coiling for the pounce, Motierre would not be expecting it – he didn't realize I meant to knock him off the stairs, like a cat springing on an unsuspecting mouse.

Hides-His-Heart swore and there came a nasty-sounding kick to the door, and it buckled slightly.

Motierre was sweating.

I smiled at him and winked. This is it.

"My employers are most displeased. I'm coming in and you can beg for your life. Not that it will do any good! Ha ha!" The door banged open. I turned as if startled then almost without looking back to Motierre, almost, and leaped forward. I tackled Motierre full force and dragged the knife across his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, through his pretty clothes and craven hide – leaving a long, vividly scarlet wound pouring blood. Not enough to kill him – but enough that it would leave an ugly scar.

To remind him what sort of people he was really dealing with.

"What?" I heard Hides-His-Heart snarl, midway my act of knocking Motierre over.

Motierre didn't have time to react - he landed harmlessly with me landing catlike, and by that, I mean that I landed on all fours, without actually landing on him. I rose and turned, bloody knife in hand and smiled charmingly at the Argonian. "Woops," I said with a dark chuckle. "Was that one yours?"

Hides-His-Heart, moved to a guard position, knife outstretched, his throat bulging in anger. "The Dark Brotherhood, is it? You've made a mistake assassin…" he snarled.

I laughed, a careless, dark sound. "We're not _in_ the business of mistakes, Argonian," I answered in mock sympathy.

I smirked at the malice in his eyes and released the spell that had been waiting in my off hand, drawing my Shadow-granted invisibility around me like a cloak. "Better luck next time, love," I whispered just before I ducked and darted around him, silent and unseen. He could check Motierre, but he'd never catch me – not invisible, not without a clue where I was going.

--S--

Once I was safely outside I took off at a sprint, still invisible and determined to put as much distance between me and Hides-His-Heart as possible, as a result, I wound up well outside the city, where I intended to camp, out of sight of the main road. I love it when a job comes off smoothly, I thought, finally able to take time to clean blood and residual poison off the lovely dagger.

I waited for a full day – as instructed by the contract, before I returned to Chorrol, this time looking like a proper young lady – no makeup, and a headscarf tied in place, just in case I ran into Hides-His-Heart.

Motierre was, I learned, in the chapel undercroft – so there I went, and found him accordingly. I produced the little bottle of antidote that Vicente had given me and slipped into the undercroft stealthily. No need for anyone to know I was here.

I uncapped the little bottle and force-fed it to Motierre's corpselike body. Within moments he was beginning to come around and he sat up, swaying slightly, like a man with a hangover.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

"Ohhh... I'm a bit stiff, but quite fine otherwise," he obviously hadn't gotten good look at the nasty wound that would be across his chest. "Ooh…that's really sore…was that 'gentle'?" Motierre asked.

"Like a mother to her children, Motierre," I said darkly, though it was plain that if he had complaints, he could figure out where he could stick them.

"Ah yes, the Undercroft," he looked around. "My family members are buried here, you know."

"Lovely," I said idly. "Let's go."

"Which... um... leads me to something I may have failed to mention before. My ancestors will see my 'revival' as a desecration of their tomb…" he laughed nervously.

I was in no such good mood. "_What_?" I wanted to slap him.

Motierre evidently sensed the danger, because he continued quickly. "This Undercroft is...well...quite cursed. Any desecration will cause my ancestors to rise from their graves and defend their resting place."

I snatched him up by the collar and drew Motierre so all he could see were my eyes – much as Vicente had done to me on one occasion. "Now you listen to me, you little _s'wit_," I snarled, using the Dunmer insult, rather than swear colorfully at him. "You keep your cowardly carcass behind me and stay _close_. No one said a damn thing about fetching zombies and _I hate zombies_," I gave him a shove and turned, fully irritated.

Zombies are not incredibly hard to kill, but they are dangerous to the unwary.

Motierre gave a high-pitched squeak that made me roll my eyes. "I can hear them coming as we speak! You must protect me...escort me to the Gray Mare where I can buy passage out of Chorrol!"

He was unbelievably stupid if he thought no one would notice him. I cast a Chameleon spell over him and glared at the ripple he made. Well – haven't I been calling him an idiot the whole time? "Right," I knew where the Gray Mare was…sort of. "You just remember what I told you, and don't try anything cute…" I drew Sufferthorn.

I hate zombies…nasty decrepit things, dropping body-parts all over the place…they're so unhygienic.

Motierre gave a cross between a gasp and another startled squeak. "Here they come! Oh my, Aunt Margaret! You are looking a little worse for wear..."

I strode forward and held up a hand and spoke, but the words were not a language that a non-arcanist would be able to understand. But understanding was not important. Frost touched my lips and I felt a chill seep into them.

The ice spell froze the zombie in place, a sparkling statue of ice and frozen flesh. I gave it a good push and it shattered, sending frozen zombie and ice shards all along the floor. "Come on, you," I snarled and started forward, feeling particularly malevolent.

First he's a coward, now he's withholding information. It's a good thing I'm such a perfectionist, otherwise I'd slit his lousy throat and leave him here.

Asshole.

Anger helped me deal with the zombies – freezing them in place then shattering them – and I got Motierre to the Gray Mare. He babbled the whole way and I told him, point blank before I let him go, that if I ever saw him again, I would be very angry.

And he knew what I meant by angry. "You…wouldn't…"

"Oh yeah?" I asked. "Try me."

Motierre went _white_ and fainted, right there on the doorstep.

I stuck my head in to the inn and hailed the innkeeper. It wouldn't be proper to leave my client on the doorstep in a dead faint, though I did nudge him distastefully with my foot before I slipped out of the city, heading for Kvatch.

What a day.


	25. Chapter 25

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Ailirah is the PC that completes the main quest – youngest of five and the only girl. One of her bothers was alluded to earlier, as the head of the Fighter's Guild. She's picked up bad habits form all four brothers, including bad language and the inability to just walk away from a fight.

--

Chapter Twenty-Four: All for Oblivion

--

I knew something was wrong before I got all the way up the winding road to Kvatch. The sky overhead was red, and split with what looked like purple lightning, frozen in place, stars shining beyond the red miasma. The sun and moons were all blocked – and there was a thick, choking smell of smoke and something else…brimstone.

Halfway up the path I found the refugee camp – that was the only thing it could have been. People huddling together in makeshift tents, some praying , many sobbing, women clutching their children, children clutching their parents, husbands clutching their wives: all in all a desperate sort of scene.

I tied up my horse to a tree and patted him and unloaded my gear from his saddlebags. It looks like the shit has finally hit the ceiling – I knew it, I just _knew_ it. My stomach churned slightly.

"What's happening?" I demanded, accosting the first individual who was not in hysterics - a priest, by his clothes.

He looked at me, fatalistic, despondent.

"I asked you what was going on, priest," I repeated firmly, giving him a little shake. I was not being threatening, simply firm.

"What is happening –can you not see, my lady?" he waved towards the hill upon which Kvatch sat, smoke billowing up to touch the reddened sky. "It is…the end," he said bleakly. "Hope is gone. The Covenant is broken..."

I let him go. Forget covenants and hope-gones – I wanted to know why the damn city was on fire! I had Family in there! This thought put me back in my proper state of mind –that is, a state of mind where I could shove fear and everything else aside in favor of clear thinking, and getting things done.

And I wasn't going to get anything done, just standing here.

"My lady!"

"I have Family in there!" I said briskly.

The priest came to himself long enough to seize my arm before I could stride off. "My lady, many of us had family there...but it is unlikely that any of them have survived! The Chapel is cast down, and the faithful...my friends...all dead…you must not go that way!"

I shook him off, but rather gently. "I can't accept that, until I find their charred corpses myself," I said. "Who's in charge up there?" I pointed at the rising road.

"Savlian Matius…" the priest looked like he was going to try to discourage me again.

"If anyone follows and is willing to help – speed them along," I said and checked my gear.

Sufferthorn was at my hip, where it belonged, I had a bow in my hand, and a quiver full of blue-fletched arrows – my signature color, to distinguish my shots from Tel's. They had been a gift from Tel, incidentally…after I'd killed Dreth. I had poisons and potions all arrayed in the small slots on my belt. My magicka tingled in my fingertips when I called it.

I trotted up the path, pulling an arrow and fitting it to the bowstring as I trotted along. I had no idea what to expect, only that whatever it was probably going to be nasty…I closed my eyes, hoping that the Family inside was all right. I'd never met them...but after all, Family is Family.

And we had lost enough.

--S--

The long road up to Kvatch was like a road straight to Oblivion itself…and ended in a fortified position outside the Kvatch gates…and between the fortified barricades and the gates themselves was a massive structure, like lava, hardened into a sort of crude frame, supporting a fiery mirror – only instead of reflecting back the scene of carnage around it, it seemed to lead…straight into the heart of Oblivion. Flames and smoke added to the hot, acrid air, and the ground itself was cracked and dry and burned.

Scarred.

I aimed and released an arrow without really thinking, and it struck a…a scamp, I realized as it flew backwards, my shaft buried it its wasted chest. I trotted up. "Who's in charge here?" I asked briskly, selecting another arrow.

"I am –who the hell are you?" a man wearing the chainmail and heraldry of Kvatch itself asked, his eyes narrowed beneath his chainmail head cover.

"Help, perhaps," I said blandly. "What's going on?"

"The city's been overrun by Daedra –what's it look like? This isn't a tourist's trap, woman, get back to the refugee's camp!"

I let another arrow fly, unconcerned by the guard's ranting. "Would you really turn away my help?" I asked as another scamp flew back. "I'm no civilian – I happen to be a member of the Mages' Guild," I lowered my bow, and selected another arrow. "Your Daedra, there, are very vulnerable to spells of ice, and shock. May I clear the field?" I asked, feeling my heart rate jump. I could see where the Daedra were coming from now - they were huddled behind the Gate, charging forward one or two at a time. Stalling tactics, I realized.

"You…what?"

"I'll take that as a yes, hold this," I shoved my bow at the guard who was so chatty and unpinned my cloak, letting it flutter as I trotted forward. Scamps and clannfear, I can handle - and within moments I had dropped the dozen or so Daedra- and one Dremora – with well-placed ice spells, or with Sufferthorn.

I moved back to the fortifications, wobbling slightly. I am _not_ used to casting like that…particularly with spells from the Destructive school…but it had to be done…otherwise, sooner or later, one of the amassed Daedra would slip past, and then it would be a melee fight, and I had doubts about the soldiers. It seemed like one good scare would send them running, which made me suspect they had been at this for awhile. "What now?" I asked, picking up my cloak and putting it back on, then reclaiming my bow from the stunned guard.

He was goggling at me.

"I have bought you only a little time!" I said sharply. "This Gate…" I waved and there was a yelp as two of the soldiers unleashed arrows. One missed, the other wounded a charging clannfear. I aimed but did not need to loose the shaft. The one who had wounded it had let off a second shot which struck the clannfear in the throat, killing it. It hit the ground and skidded several feet to stop in a puff of dust.

It was so hot up here –and I was wearing my cloak, only for fear of losing it along the way. Sweat was beginning to bead up on my forehead and I knew that within minutes I'd be drenched, just like everyone else. The casting had taken quite a bit out of me, but not enough to put me out of the fight. I looked at the Gate, looming like a hellish maw between me and the Family.

"What's been done so far?" I asked, eyeing the Gate's dancing, flame like edges, until my eyes watered.

"Send a patrol in…haven't heard anything from them. They haven't come out…" it was obvious he felt he had committed his men to die. I felt cold calm settling over me, as I shoved adrenaline and fear, and the general 'keyed up' feelings associated with this sort of situation out of the way.

I needed to be able to think. To reason.

Another scamp burst out of the Gate and I raised my bow. "I've got it," I said aloud, calmly and let the shaft fly. "We can't very well just _stand_ here," I said calmly. "How long since your patrol went in there?" I sighted in and picked off another scamp. It made me uneasy that they were starting to trickle out of the Gate again. "Ugh. What _is_ all this?" I asked myself – meaning 'what is all this about'. I've never heard of Gates to Oblivion just cropping up arbitrarily…

"A damned inconvenience," an annoyed but competent voice declared with a bit of a snort if irritation.

I turned.

Huffing up behind us was a young woman, with red hair – or, I think it was red, it was hard to tell with the funny light - bound back in two thick braids which hung just past her shoulder blades. She looked from me to the guard with large brown eyes, and a face that seemed more given to smiles than the determined frown she was wearing now. "I'm looking for the priest, Martin…" she said, addressing the city guard, though she continued to look at me. "I didn't see him in the camp…"

"Not here, you won't find him," the head guard – Savlian Matius, I both remembered and by now suspected – said shaking his head. "We can't get into the city, the damned Gate is in the way," he motioned irritably. "Look, I sent in a patrol nearly a half-hour ago, but no one's come out," he said, putting us all on the same page.

I grit my teeth.

_Be careful what you volunteer for_. I was about to say 'then I'll go have a look', when the girl spoke up.

"I'll go."

"_I'll_ go," I said over her.

She snorted. "The way I see it," she produced a pair of battle axes, from her belt perhaps a little longer than my Blade of Woe and twirled them easily, though not as if they were her primary weapons. "You're a ranged fighter," she ceased the twirl of axes, "you'll be better off here with the rest!"

"Yes, well, forgive me for saying but you haven't got the look of an arcane practitioner and those," I pointed to her weapons, "are not well-spelled. If you go in there, you're facing the wastes of Oblivion itself. It is not for the inexperienced –particularly when the inexperienced is one person. Did you not hear what Matius said?"

"Kh - stuff it!" the woman snapped, and I was reminded forcibly of Gogron – no regard for the odds. I had to smile slightly. "I'm Fighter's Guild, and fully qualified! This kind of thing is my _job_!"

I laughed, and she scowled.

"It's not funny," she said flatly.

Damn – and I get stuck with the gung ho volunteer. "Oh yes it is - we'll both go, then, as you're so determined," it made sense. I could use the help – I didn't much fancy trying to take on an entire Oblivion Gate by myself, not knowing what was on the other side…though it was looking more and more like I didn't have much choice, unless I wanted to sit here on Kvatch's doorstep and pick off scamps until I ran out of arrows.

I turned to Matius. "It's your lucky day. It seems you have a pair of volunteers. Hold this spot – don't go anywhere, we'll be back soon."

"Just the two of you, now wait a minute…" Matius sputtered.

"We have no time," I said and I strode forward after unpinning my cloak and throwing it back over the fortifications.

"No kidding. I like your style, though," the other girl…woman, I suppose I ought to say, smiled. "I'm Ailirah."

"Call. me…Dagmar."

"_Dagmar_?"

"I know," I said flatly and shook my head.

"So…what are you? Fighters' Guild? Arena?" Ailirah asked.

I realized where I'd heard the name – unless there were more than one Ailirah in the Empire, this was the same Ailirah who had escaped the Imperial Prison. "Mages' Guild," I answered blandly as we walked forward. I readied my bow and Ailirah twirled her axes again. "I'm looking for family. You?"

"Looking for a priest," she said and chuckled. "And no – I can't look elsewhere."

"Well, you might want to consider it…damn that's a big sucker…" I said before I could stop myself

"Uh huh…that sums it up pretty well…you sure you want to go first?" Ailirah looked over at me.

"Not really," I muttered so only Ailirah would hear me. She chuckled, and I continued, louder, "I'll be fine," I said, with a confidence I did not feel. I turned. "Give us more than just an hour! If we're not back…by dark…" I made a very final-looking movement with my hand –though I was not sure what I was telling them to do, in actuality. But the soldiers looked heartened and Matius saluted to Ailirah and I as we turned.

"How…do we get in?"she asked as we drew closer, her tone shaking slightly.

"Just walk through, like you would with any door. It shouldn't burn you," I grabbed her arm and let the spell against fire ripple over both of us. "But just to be safe," I added, and Ailirah nodded.

"Yeah," she chuckled nervously, "I like safe, too."

We stepped together through the Gate, and suffered a moment's worth of disorientation and dizziness.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

--S--

Oblivion was a harsh place – the air scorched and I immediately wished my armor was lighter. Yes, I was wearing my shrouded armor –had felt a little exposed about doing so – but fortunately, with the current problems, people didn't seem to particularly care. I was not, however, wearing my hood and cowl, so that might possibly account for part of the acceptance. Dark leather wasn't in and of itself illegal, after all.

"Whoa…" Ailirah looked around, some of her cocky demeanor vanishing. "What the hell…?"

"Close enough..." I answered.

The windswept planes of Oblivion were stifling. Lava ran in rivers, and seemed to form – or at least run into - a sea of lava around the clod of hard-baked island we found ourselves upon. A broken bridge – massive and made of pale stone –lay broken and shattered. Lying along it –aside from an Imperial Legionnaire's horse, were several charred shapes that I suspected were…human.

The air was dusty, and smelled strongly of something burnt, ashy, and there was a nasty odor that was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. It was too vague to even remember where I'd smelt it before. I could see several stands of bloodgrass from here, standing spiky and red, almost blending into the harsh landscape.

What was if about bloodgrass? Well, I'll just assume that everything here will try and kill me – I _know_ harrada will try to strangle the unwary harvester…and spiddal sticks release noxious clouds…

"Look out!" I barked as I pulled the bowstring back and sent an arrow flying. I had seen the motion out of the corner of my eye – a human shape, being chased by Daedra - and I don't mean scrappy sized Daedra, though there were several.

I meant the bigger Dremora who were jeering and whooping – it looked like a fox hunt without foxes and with humans. The smaller Daedra were easy. To look at Ailirah, you wouldn't believe it, but she ran right up to the Dremora, and began to hack away with those battleaxes of hers to great effect.

Like a lion, that one – I was surprised by her skill and efficiency and immediately reevaluated my opinion of her. Namely that we might just get out of here alive. She was very good at keeping the Daedra occupied, so that I could pick them off from a distance.

It took Ailirah and I only a few minutes to clear the small party of Daedra. "Whoo…you weren't…kidding…" Ailirah panted, looking over at me.

"I don't joke about this sort of thing…where's the human?" I looked around to find the soldier lying on the ground. "Oi – wake up, soldier," I gave him a nudge with my foot and he stirred. I knelt and rolled him over, and Ailirah hovered.

"You're…not much of a people person, are you?" Ailirah asked dryly.

"Quite the contrary – but people skills aren't going to work on the Dremora, I'm afraid," I answered. "Here, wake up," I slapped the soldier's cheek as gently as I could with the back of my hand, while still bringing him around.

"Gah!" he came back with a start and I dropped him. "Ow!"

"On your feet," I pulled him to his feet, ignoring Ailirah's looks of consternation.

"You don't just smack injured people!" she cried.

"Duly noted, what's your name, soldier?" I asked steadying him, and keeping an eye out for trouble. I cast a detect life spell, just to be safe.

"Ilend…Vonius," he said, looking from Ailirah to myself.

"Ailirah," Ailirah smiled and supplemented, then gave me a dirty look as I continued briskly. I don't know if she's noticed, but this is _Oblivion_, not a garden party.

"What's happened? Where's the patrol?" I asked calmly.

Vonius looked stricken. "Captain Matius…sent us in to try and close the Gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge," Ailirah turned to look but I didn't. I had thought the blackened shapes looked a little too human to be anything else. "They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him!" Vonius grabbed my arm, his hand clenching with fear and desperation. "I'm getting out of here!" he suddenly yelped, and I recognized panic, and the assertion of instinct to survive.

"Wait..." Ailirah started.

"Go – Matius still holds the road out of Kvatch. Report back to him," I motioned back towards the Gate.

"The Captain is still holding the barricade? I figured I was the last one left alive…" shock and relief peppered his featured, then he nodded, competence and confidence – as well as a little unease at letting two women head straight into this flaming wasteland – filled his face.

I smiled thinly and patted his hand. "Don't worry about us – we can look after ourselves. Off you go," I motioned over my shoulder and Vonius left.

"We could have used him…" Ailirah said ruefully, though her tone indicated she actually agreed with what I'd done.

"Yes," I agreed, "but didn't you see the look about him? He doesn't have anything left to fight with – not in this place, anyway. Taking him would have just gotten him killed…and maybe us along with him. Come on – the big tower," I pointed.

The tower loomed, a black edifice shooting up what looked like several hundred feet, like the central post in a tent. It was actually more like a small citadel, than a tower – for there were several smaller towers, connected by bridges. Broken walls and massive iron gates – or the remains of iron gates – punctuated the landscape. Inside the upper floors, there shone a brilliant if sickly green light, that I did not particularly like. I felt like I was being watched.

"Um…so…" Ailirah said, looking around. She was nervous.

I was nervous – in fact, I know that Lucien and Vicente will both pitch fits when they find out I just walked into an Oblivion Gate with just one Fighter's Guild agent, without a clear plan of action.

_We didn't train you to act like this! _I could hear it now. But I figured that if I invoked the argument that I had to get to the Family, see if they were okay, much would be forgiven.

Gogron would wish he was here. _I_ wished he was here – he could really help us bust some heads. "We're in Oblivion," I sighed.

"Yeah…any idea…whose?" Ailirah asked.

I suspected she had already hazarded a guess. "Well," I said, falling back on my studies with the Mages' Guild, "accepting the fact that we're not choking and suffocating in blinding agony, there are no insane residents, and no maze gardens, I can safely rule out Malacath, Sheogorath, and Boethiah's realms. It's probably not Nocturnal's or Hircine's…My guess best guess? Mehrunes Dagon…he takes the ash and waste to an extreme…or so I thought," I rattled off. I know it can't be Azura's –you can't reach her plane from Nirn anymore - and I'm pretty sure Vaermina's realm would be a little less...corporeal.

I had a scholastic interest in the Daedra, especially as some of a mage's best powers are summoning. I was never good at it, but I was interested in where we were summoning lackeys _from_. Not enough to go visiting the shrines, mind you…but still.

"Damn," Ailirah grunted, and proceeded to swear for some time yet. "So…you're Dagmar?"

I shrugged. Dagmar is my real first name –Sarielle is my middle name, and I much prefer it. I'm sure you see why. "And you're Ailirah – the prisoner who escaped from the Imperial Prison, unless I'm much mistaken."

Ailirah looked guilty. "The orc started it."

"I believe you," I said absently, thinking back to Gogron's disposition for starting fights.

Conversation slacked off not long after this – we were too busy trying to fight our way through patrols of Dremora, and their hangers on. I was beginning to worry I'd run out of arrows, but I had to admit that while Ailirah seemed to be a little uncertain, jittery, and a little naive, she was great to have in a fight.

I've never seen someone so enthusiastic and efficient about hacking up Dremora, and I live with Gogron. This Fighters' Guild short-sheet –she was quite petite – could give the orc a couple lessons. I also noticed that while she tried to be pleasant and amiable, I had no doubt that she was a leader.

She was just content to listen to the one who wasn't panicking. The truth was…I was a little beyond panic. This place was terrifying in the extreme, and it was only my will to get out of here alive that kept panic and foolhardiness at bay.

Though it would never do to admit it – not just now, anyway.


	26. Chapter 26

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Sigil Keep

--

"What is that you're humming, anyway?" Ailirah asked as we approached the Tower.

I had lost all trace of time and had begun to hum nervously. I'm an assassin, not a soldier. And not well-suited for scrabbling around the hostile terrain like this.

"Huh?" I looked about and stopped for a moment, crouching close to the ground.

Ailirah joined me, on one knee, currently shielded by a large slab of rough to the touch, pale stone. I didn't get it: the structures here were either made of the black stone of the Towers, the paler stone of the bridges, or the iron of the gates…so there did it all come from? I was just beginning to prepare a theory on this – that these were more like outposts of the realm than the actual realm. Staging areas for…for what? It _looked_ like an invasion to me.

So where the hell is the rest of the Imperial Legion?

"That song…what is it?" Ailirah asked and took a slow breath, and a sip of water from her canteen and grimaced. It was probably close to boiling by now.

She offered it to me but I shook my head and winked, calling an ice spell to my fingers. It materialized in the form of a hand-sized ice crystal, which I managed to break, and handed half to Ailirah. "It's better like this, doesn't get warm, doesn't taste bad," I said and promptly sucked on my ice shard for a few minutes, feeling the parched scratchiness of my throat ease.

The air here was causing a lot of problems – my eyes were watering, stinging and bloodshot from the heat and all the ash and general grime in the air, and my throat and lungs were protesting for the same reason. "It's…a nervous habit." I answered simply.

It occurred to me that humming about 'days of wrath and ash' _might_ not be the best idea around here, regardless that it was rather appropriate.

"Nervous habit?" Ailirah asked as we got up and continued on - still sucking on the ice, which was melting quickly in the arid climate.

"Uh-huh," I nodded.

"I bite my nails," she offered and I gave a wry chuckle. "Still…this place is the worst. I thought I saw 'bad' in the Imperial Prison…or that time I went into the desert region of Elsweyr with Dad."

Oh trust me, you ain't seen nothing yet – at least Elsweyr's still on Nirn. "So what's an escapee from the Imperial Prison want with a priest?" I asked.

"He's…a friend." she said and I knew she was lying.

"Hell of a friend," I said.

"What about you? Mages Guild? I thought you people liked to stick to your guildhalls and your books? You seem to be…rather better-acquainted with the real world. And dealing with it," Ailirah said.

I shrugged. "I got tired of my ass being stuck in a chair."

"Sounds like my brother Rogerik," Ailirah said with a chuckle, and promptly swore colorfully.

I heard something. "Don't stop talking – there's something following us."

"Friendly?" Ailirah asked, though she grinned.

"Not hardly…" I grinned grimly. "Don't move until I say- I want this thing to get in close," I felt the spell flow into my hand, and a moment later I had turned and sprinted at the Dremora, who was sneaking up on us, as best he could in heavy armor.

I shouted wordlessly and slammed my hand right into his breastplate, frost blossoming from the contact, rushing through his armor and into him.

He knocked me aside, but I clattered harmlessly to the ground and watched Ailirah go to work. I renewed my detect life spell as Ailirah threw her axes back up over her shoulders. "You could have sniped him," she said blandly.

"Yeah – but this was easier," I shrugged. "There's the Tower…how come we keep walking around in damned circles?" I asked irritably, scratching my neck as sweat trickled down beneath the collar of my leathers.

"Don't look at me – I get lost easy," Ailirah said and colored a little bit. "Absolutely no sense of direction."

I frowned – this is _not_ the time to tell me that.

--S--

We found the entrance to the Tower, and Ailirah went sheet white as we pushed the massive doors open just wide enough for us to slip through. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her down to a crouch. "Are you all right? You look a little pale," I said conversationally as I reactivated my detect life spell, and watched _them_ skulking around. I whispered, so my voice wouldn't carry.

"I…_I_ look pale? You should see yourself. You sure you don't need a lie down…?" she joked back, but feebly.

"There's four of them moving around in there – stay here, I'll be right back…"

"Hey..."

"Unless you can see in the dark, we haven't time for this. Stay put for a minute," I repeated and then stood up, and pulled my bow from my shoulder. I'm used to working in the dark.

"I freaking hate you!" Ailirah hissed, but I was sure she didn't mean it.

I selected and arrow and put it to the bowstring. Then stopped.

"What?" Ailirah asked.

"On second thought…go that way," I pointed down the corridor that seemed to ring the Tower's main floor. "There's at least one, maybe two. I don't want it coming up behind me."

Ailirah grinned. "Smart girl," and with that she slipped off.

I did my best to blend into the shadows, but finally gave up and simply cast nighteye over myself. Yes, I couldn't see shadows to hide in anymore, but I could see my targets and any potential obstacles I might trip over. I also cast chameleon –so my eyes shining in the dark would not give me away.

It was not hard to pick off the Dremora. Things might have gone very badly indeed if I hadn't told Ailirah to circle around behind me, because she caught two who had gotten the general idea where the shots were coming from, and had decided to sneak up on me – I couldn't hear them because everyone in the room was clattering around.

Ailirah came up behind them and I found myself sprawling – one Dremora poised over me, an arrow in his throat, and an axe in his back. He was flopped to the side as Ailirah pulled her axe free with squish as it came free of his flesh and a grinding sound of metal on metal as she pulled it free of his armor. "See? I'm not a kid."

"Right…"

Ailirah pulled me to my feet and I looked around, absently rubbing my lower back –which had been hit hardest when I'd gone sprawling.

"What do you see?" Ailirah asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

I shook my head.

If we had been hoping that the interior of the Tower would be any better than the wastes outside, we were sadly disappointed. It was dark, as I've said, and the smell of things burning had changed. Now mixed with the acrid, ashy odor of the plane in general, there was now a smell unlike any I had ever caught whiff of before in my life, and it didn't take me long to figure out what it was. The blood was the first clue –there was a pervasive metallic scent as we carried on through the only other door in the citadel – blood. Lots of it. I couldn't imagine how much blood it would take to so thoroughly pervade a room, but whatever Mehrunes Dagon was up to, he was keeping his Dremora well-fed…

If you don't know, Dremora _eat_ humans. And pretty much anything else – it's not exactly Tamriel out here.

The smell that had bothered me most was burning flesh. The second set of rooms, past the main room with its rising current of what looked like lava, surging towards the roof of the Tower, was scarcely better illuminated…but illuminated it was and it was not until Ailirah and I both looked at each other and then looked up that we realized what was casting the flickering light.

Not torches.

Corpses. Stuck on pikes and poles, impaled and bound with metal bands to the pillars that supported the ceiling – all of them having been abused first – bite marks like those a clannfear or scamp would leave, severed limbs, broken bones...and on top of that they were all on fire, casting the wicked light. No blood was dripping from the bodies, I noticed quickly- they had been drained out first.

Even Vicente can't be that thorough when he's out to kill. I felt my stomach lurch and sort of wished Vicente was here, for familiar company, if nothing else.

And on top of all this, the Tower _creaked_ and clanked, like a tree in the wind, or as if something were happening deep within some subterranean chamber of it. Hardly soothing for the nerves.

"This is…" Ailirah had turned ashen, and was looking horrified. She instantly invoked Mara, and shuddered.

"This is bad, let's keep moving," I said, but my voice came out a little husky and quieter than I mean, so much so that I had to repeat the statement to be heard.

Ailirah nodded jerkily and took off ahead of me, picking a course. All we knew was that we needed to get higher – it was the only lead we had and we were going to follow it.

The next door led to more Dremora, and more nastiness –we were back in the main shaft, though now we could see what we could not before: the main shaft of the Tower, through which the lava seemed to flow upwards to no apparent purpose – was ringed around the inside with ramps – which could not be seen immediately from the ground level. These ramps stopped and picked up sporadically – but always with a door, always winding up towards the ceiling.

--S--

"It's _locked_!" Ailirah cried in frustration and sank her axes into the door in question.

They ricocheted off so violently that only a swift drop to the floor by means of an assassin's reflexes saved me from becoming a casualty. "Will you _watch_ where you're swinging those?" I snapped so loudly my voice echoed in the massive vault.

"Oh…wow…sorry Dags," Ailirah colored – which, as we were both flushed from being too hot, made her look like a boiled lobster, on top of looking very sheepish.

"It's _Dagmar_," I said in a soft snarl as I picked myself up off the ground.

Okay – I see no reason to lie: Sarielle is my _middle_ name. My first name really is Dagmar. Now, I'm not saying it's a bad name…I just prefer Sarielle. And right now, what could be further from Sarielle the Slayer than Dagmar the Mage?

"Oh…right," Ailirah looked a little surprised at the bite in my tone.

"Oh, move over," I sighed and tried unsuccessfully to spell and then to pick the lock but to no avail. I ran out of lock picks and then shook my head. "Well," I said, sitting back on my heels, "let's go take a better look around. This can't be the only way out."

"I'll go left," Ailirah smiled.

"See you on the other side," I got to my feet and started following the outer edge of the room.

Here's the thing: the central part of the Tower was round, like a tower should be. All the rooms surrounding it were square – how do I know this? I found the corners. Which meant that you have a circular main shaft, surrounded by square rooms inside a circular Tower. So unless there's a very powerful enchantment which makes the inside of the Towers incongruous to the outside...there is some really messed up architecture around here.

Ailirah found another door that was not locked, and this one led outside.

We both stood in the doorway, goggling at the bridge that spanned from the Tower we were in, to the smaller tower we had seen from the ground. The wind whipped about fast and strong here, to the point that for a few minutes all we did was huddle in the doorway, watching dust and ash being whipped past us.

I looked down –it was quite a fall if the wind managed to knock us off the bridge. No wonder the Dremora all wear such heavy armor - it's so they don't get blow away.

"Wow…" I swallowed. "Put rocks in your pockets, huh?"

"That pretty much sums it up…" Ailirah agreed. "You think it's _safe_?"

"_Safe_? Hell no…necessary? Yeah," I shrugged. "Let me go first."

"You sure…I can…you know…" Ailirah offered. She had a stockier build than I did, and probably weighted a little more.

Not enough, though, to make much of a difference. Or so I felt. "Yeah – I'm sure…" I stepped out onto the bridge and crouched low, as close to the ground I could get. The bridge was just barely wide enough for one of us to pass at a time, and I wished for a few minutes I was an Argonian, or even a Khajiit –the way their legs are configured, they can walk on all fours with less difficulty than a human – our knees get in the way.

I got to the smaller tower all right, and Ailirah followed, trying to keep close to the ground as I had done.

I stopped her near the door, and renewed my detect life spell.

"See anything?" she asked, gnawing on her lip – her nails were already bitten down and her hands were absolutely filthy.

I shook my head and then pressed my finger to my lips – we go quietly.

Ailirah nodded and I touched the door. Like most of the doors here, it slid open neatly and briskly at a touch, and we slipped inside.

I looked around and held up two fingers, then motioned up towards the top of the tower with my thumb.

Two life signs, though had I waited a moment longer, we would have known that without the spell, because there was as shout of pain and a laugh, and curses…all in the common tongue. Ailirah took off at a jog and I followed. I would have approached with more caution, but I understand why Ailirah didn't.

She's the hero type – I think it's a Fighters' Guild thing.

We found a man in a cage, and a Dremora, who had apparently been tormenting him.

Ailirah came across the floor from the curving ramp that spiraled down the inside walls of the tower with a throaty yell that would have done a Nord proud, and hacked into the Dremora before he knew what was happening.

I was there to help – though really, Ailirah was doing just fine on her own, so I let her do her thing – no need to get underfoot.

"Who are you?" I asked as I clambered up onto the cage he was in, and tried to find a way to unlock it – not that I had any lock picks, or even saw a lock _on_ the cage to begin with. He wouldn't be much help, but I was sure Ailirah would not want to just leave him there. I didn't want to leaving him either – not without making sure I didn't have much of a choice. Human beings don't belong here – and that includes all men, 'mer and beastfolk.

"Menien Goneld…" the grizzled soldier replied. "No wait! Don't! You're just wasting time!"

"What time? We could have been here for days…let Dagmar have a look," Ailirah said, wiping her brow.

"You don't understand!" Menien barked.

I scowled – we _would_ get one who likes and is used to giving orders.

"What don't we understand?" I asked grimly, dropping back off the cage and landing safely on the floor.

There was a sort of large cutaway in the floor beneath the cage and looking down, I realized, that there was a good chance the contraption comprised mainly of levers and gears on the wall probably would open the cage…and drop the prisoner straight down several hundred feet.

Yeesh. These Dremora don't have much to do all day, do they?

"You must get to the top of the large tower," Menien said as Ailirah wandered over to stand near me, peering at him with some surprise, as though she suspected he might have hit his head or something, not to want to be rescued.

…_I am not often in the business of saving lives…_

Well, that makes two of us.

"…the Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry! The Keeper has the key - you must get the key!" Menien was saying urgently.

"But we can still get you out!" Ailirah protested, though not in the innocent-idealist way. She actually had a point –given a few minutes we might be able to rig something. Worst to worst, we could open the cage at the bottom and get him to clamber out and to safety. Harrowing, but hardly as dangerous as staying put.

"Don't be daft, girl!" Menien braked. "The longer you waste time here, the more of those..._things _will…"

"Um….Dags?"

"Tch," I waved. "Will what?"

"They're planning a second wave! I heard them talking about it! You better hop to, lass, if you get my meaning!"

"Dammit – I _knew _things were getting easy," I grunted.

"_DAGS_!" Ailirah shouted and darted left just in time to swing one battleaxe straight into the head of a Dremora that came up the ramp. "They're gonna get us pinned! Oh _shit_!" she planted her foot against his shoulder and yanked her axe free, sending jelly-like flecks of goo flying, and blood glugging. Dremora blood is thick, dark red or black, and syrupy.

"Don't panic!" I barked, hearing panic in her tone. "Stay put!" I pointed shapely at Menien – good one, Sari, where's he gonna go? – and unshouldered my bow.

I didn't get to keep it for long. In fact, Ailirah was forced back and the Dremora swarmed up, two at a time –as many as could get up the ramp without jostling each other.

I drew Sufferthorn and looked from the Dremora menacing me to the knife and back.

Shit. I knew I should have brought something bigger...and I'm not very good with conjuration…

I danced back, avoiding his mace – if I get hit with that, it'd going to make Gogron's hugs look like a touch of feather-down. I found the cutout in the floor behind me with my heel and swallowed. I glanced over my shoulder…I can't jump that far backwards…

But I can duck, and duck I did, dropping Sufferthorn to do it, knowing I would probably never see the knife again. I hit the floor and it probably saved my life, because instead being knocked over the edge by the Dremora, he tripped over me – which hurt like hell – and he went sprawling forward…straight down about two hundred feet.

I screamed as I, too was pushed over the edge, forced over by the momentum of the Dremora's trip and fall. I lost my bow, and found myself hanging from the ledge by my fingertips only.

Don't look down…don't look down...I tried to climb up over the ledge and had just gotten my arms fully over and was ready to try and swing a leg up, when a foot descended in front of me. I looked up – a long way up.

Another Dremora had taken over where his fallen comrade had left off. He planted his heavily-booted foot gingerly on my shoulder – leering the whole time - and began to increase pressure, forcing me back slowly, despite my struggles.

I closed my eyes and grabbed his ankle and forced an ice spell through it. He jerked back and kicked out at me, but missed. I let go as he staggered back, limping and I found myself once again hanging from the ledge by my fingertips. My shoulders were starting to protest. I started to pant in real fear.

Don't panic…

"Oh no you don't!" There was the sound of Ailirah hacking through heavy armor and the Dremora fell over the edge, plummeting to join his comrade. There was a clatter and a moment later Ailirah had me by the arm and was trying to help pull me up – but Menien's cage was in her way. "Wait, wait..." I said as she pulled too hard on my shoulder. "Stop…here…here's what we're going to do…" I panted and looked over my shoulder, safe doing so only because Ailirah had a grip on me, and I wouldn't slip if I looked down.

"Okay –this is how it is: I need you to swing me - no listen," I said briskly, hiding my fear. "I need you to help me swing, if I do it from here, I'll just drop to the bottom. But if you help me, I can make to the ramp…okay? So take my wrists, and let me hang…"

It was like watching circus performers. Ailirah braced herself and we got me facing the ramp, the direction I wanted to go, and together we got me swinging like some kind of trapeze…and then I yelled for Ailirah to let go.

There was a moment in which I was airborne, but a moment later I had landed a little awkwardly and clashed into the wall, rolling and sprawling as I did so. I got to my feet quickly and met Ailirah halfway between the platform that made up the top level and the place where I'd landed. "You're not hurt?" she asked, looking pale. "Oh…you are crazy…"

"I know...I've never tried that before..." I said, surprised at how calm I sounded.

We returned to Menien.

"You're still here?" he demanded.

"Well, yes, I don't have the key," I said flatly, still shaking inside from my near-splatter experience.

Vicente's going to kick my ass for being stupid when I get home. I just know it.

I walked over to the first Dremora and began to search him as best I could, listening to Ailirah trying to figure a way to free Menien, to her reasoning with him, and to Menien himself telling her that once we had the key we had to go, or more would die.

"Come on," I found the key on a chain around the Dremora's neck, and walked over to Ailirah, grabbed her arm and shunted her towards the ramp.

"But we can't..."

"He's made his choice. It's a brave one, and you're cheapening it," I snapped. I looked at Menien and freed a green glass bottle from my belt and passed it to him through the cage. "It's poison. It works very quickly. You won't feel anything."

"You can't just..." Ailirah began, looking upset.

"Do you want me to shoot him now, then?" I snapped, my temper wearing thin, fear catching up with me. "We have to go. Now. Think about if you like, just be a sure and catch up," I strode over to the ramp and down it.

I did not particularly _like_ leaving Menien to his fate, though I consoled myself that he had chosen it, that I had left him an out with dignity – better to die quick and painless than be tortured further by the Dremora – if that this was how it had to be.

It wasn't like killing a target on a contract. This was…different. I know, now, that I was never Fighters' Guild material.

Ailirah came jogging to catch up with me as I neared the door. She didn't say anything but she looked very upset. And then she stopped me as I opened the door. "You dropped this," she said apologetically, and held up Sufferthorn.

I honestly though it had gone over the edge…I took it reverently. "Thank you…" I said.

"It's special?" Ailirah asked.

I nodded. "A gift…from my uncle." Sort of. I put it back in its sheath and patted her shoulder. "Buck up – if Menien is right we'll be back on Nirn before anything else can go wrong."

"Don't say that, you'll jinx us…" Ailirah said, an attempt at humor, but it failed.

We crossed the bridge back, unlocked the door and carried on up another twisting ramp.

--S--

The top floor was not what it looked like from the outside. for instance: the sickly green light we saw from the ground was not actually light – it was a shield, blocking the massive windows that stretched ceiling-to-floor of the upper level, which was two or three stories high in and of itself, and housed a sort of central inner chamber. I could only suppose the lava flow I've mentioned previously supplied the power to perpetuate the shields – though from inside, you couldn't see the green color – but you couldn't reach through the shield, either.

It was a dizzying view, but Ailirah didn't take time to look. "How many?" she asked, assuming correctly that I still had a detect life spell active.

"Five," I rubbed my hands together and felt magicka trickle into them. "Let's go."

We walked in as bold as brass. The central camber was guarded by two Dremora, two flame atronachs, and a scamp, which I supposed must serve as some kind of scout, or sentry, for it ran, chattering and gibbering as it went. Well, perhaps we were both angry, or maybe we were just that close to the end, but we wound up making short work of the guards.

The central chamber was built in three levels – the level through which we entered, the second level – reached by one of the other of two massive wrought iron staircases that looked like iron bones, or fangs – and the third level. I'm not sure what the material was, it was crystalline, and red, but strong and sturdy, for it hadn't scuffed, even with the Dremora marching around in their heavy boots.

This third level, too, had a cutout in the floor, above which hung, suspended from the ceiling by massive chains, a sort of alter, shaped almost like a fountain. Hovering above this was a massive stone, that looked like cooling lava, spherical in shape, crusted black on the outside, and glowing red-yellow from the inside.

Ailirah and I both stared at it. "Is it…safe?" she asked.

The air around the stone shimmered, as with heat. "No idea…here, hang onto my arm – I've never done this…" I seem to be saying that a lot lately.

If what Menien had said was true, then all we had to do take the stone to close the Gate.

What we didn't know was whether we'd be trapped here or not.

I warded my hands against fire – just in case – and reached forward. The Sigil Stone was warm beneath my hands, but not hot. I lifted it, as if off a pedestal, and then stepped back, the stone grasped firmly. It shrunk, to the size of my fist, then to the size of a wine bottle's cork.

"Well…?" I looked around.

The next minute everything was shaking. I screeched in shock, and Ailirah did as well and the next thing I knew everything went black.


	27. Chapter 27

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-Six: Cleaning up Kvatch

--

I ached all over – my shoulders in particular. Cool wind touched my face and I smiled, eyes still closed. Cool breezes…what a nice change…and they smelled so sweet…like rain…and grass…

And smoke. Damn.

"Are you alive?" Ailirah's voice rasped off to one side of me.

"I think so…you?"

Ailirah giggled. "Same…"

I opened my eyes slowly, ready for the assault of sunlight, which never came. The red color, the ghastly effects of the Gate were fading, to reveal a cloudy night. I had never been so happy to see the promise of rain. I could see the wreckage of the Gate itself, still springing up from the ground like a weed, but it was dead. No fiery portal, no Daedra. The air was so silent and so cool compared to what I'd gotten used to that I broke out into a cold sweat and began to shiver.

"Menien!" Ailirah sat up, coming into my visual range and I slowly sat up. I honestly didn't expect to see him…and I was not disappointed. I got to my feet as Ailirah sort of stared at the ground, as if it was where Menien should have been.

"Come on, up you get," I grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.

"Thanks…" Ailirah breathed.

"Yeah, thanks…whoa! It's us!" I barked and tried to send a warning ice-spell across the ground between Matius' men and ourselves by my power fizzled. I gave a sort of shocked, nervous giggle.

That was _close._ Really close…

"Hold it! It's them!" Matius' voice boomed across the gap.

"No shit," Ailirah said it the same time I did. We looked at each other and sort of chuckled, and started forward.

Matius ran up to greet us, but I walked back to the fortifications and found my cloak and swung it on, pinning it as Ailirah detailed to Matius what had happened, and how we had closed the Gate, at which point I showed him the Sigil Stone.

Looking back, I had not been properly equipped, though if it came to a mission of stealth, I could probably close a Gate on my own – and I was fairly sure Ailirah could do the same, on her own. It's harder to notice one person, instead of more.

The problem was, if there were more prisoners, like Menien, I doubted she'd be able to leave them there.

"You did it!" Matius grabbed Ailirah and I both by one arm and pulled us into a sort of huddle. "You did it! You closed that damned Gate! Now we have a chance to take the enemy by surprise," he looked from one of us to the other.

I knew what he wanted, before he even said it. Unfortunately, my stint at volunteering required that I go along with it – even though all I wanted was dinner and a quiet place to curl up and sleep. I pulled my hood up and produced a magelight. What I saw, now, was that Ailirah's face was covered in grime, whereas before it had been just a spattering of Dremora blood – which is very sticky – hence why she hadn't bothered to wipe it off. I probably looked much the same, and could only suppose we'd picked up all the soot when the Gate had closed. We even had small bits of rock and dust in our hair –which probably made me look about thirty years older.

"We can get into the city, now that the Gate's closed…" he looked from one of us to the other.

I nodded. "I'll need a new bow…"I reached back and discovered that all my arrows were gone.

I had lost them, probably when I'd had to swing myself to safely in that damned tower. "Dammit."

"Not to worry, Miss," one of Matius' men had come hustling up. "From the fallen – but you'll be making better use of them," he smiled earnestly, and I smiled back, though my heart wasn't in it. He was a young lad, impressionable, or so I thought. I took the bow and the arrows, and then buckled the longsword about my waist.  
Better to have it and not need it, I say. Especially remembering the sorts of things that we had been fighting...

I grabbed Matius' sleeve. "Before you go running off, headlong into danger and the unknown," I waved the others to huddle up and began a rundown of what they could expect once we were inside.

The soldiers listened, grimfaced and solemn as Ailirah and I recounted the creatures we had seen, and I recounted the best was to deal with them. Once this was over with I checked my spells – still only a barest trickle of magicka. I'd have to rely on physical weapons.

Rain began to fall, and I turned my face upward. The temperature was dropping a little further – I hpped it wouldn't get too cold. "All right, let's go, remember: stay together! These things _eat _people!" I barked as Matius, and Ailirah took off in the fore –let them be heroes, I followed behind them, and the rest of Matius battered contingent followed me.

Never be the first to charge through a besieged city's gate. You don't know what's in there.

--S--

What was in there, was trouble. The predicted Daedric creatures were only half the problem.

The city looked like a giant had taken a massive warhammer and pounded it to rubble. Half the chapel's roof had been knocked off, and was lying in several massive pieces –and hundreds of smaller ones – in the city's central quarter. The arena was half-leveled and everywhere were burning homes, screams of the injured and the dying, the shrieks of scamps and clannfear, and the yells of the human-shaped Dremora.

Fires blazed out of control, or flickered in beds of embers, sending their smoke wreathing skyward, blotting out the clouds. Thunder rumbled in the background as I pulled my bowstring taught and let a shaft fly, striking a scamp before Ailirah or Matius could even taken a hurried pace forward.

"We have to get to the Chapel!" Ailirah barked and Matius agreed – but I knew that was only a place to start for him.

I found higher ground –clambering up onto the wreckage of a house, and spent a few moments picking off Daedra, until I had to move. They were so preoccupied with the ground forces and melee fighters that I was out of sight and out of mind.

Right up until I put an arrow into them.

"Where's Dagmar?" Ailirah hollered, looking around.

"Right here!" I called and scrambled down from my newest vantage point.

"Come on!" she took off at a trot for the chapel's heavy doors, and I kept an eye open, relying on a detect life spell to let me know if anything was lurking. There were lots of life signs in the chapel – but not nearly as many as Matius or Ailirah would want to see.

The drizzle was causing the soot on my face to turn to rivulets of ashy mud and Dremora blood. I reached up and wiped my face with my cloak, smearing the mess worse. "Hello!" Ailirah shouted, pounding on the chapel door with the butt end of one of her axes. "Are there any survivors?"

"Several," I answered.

"Who goes there?" a muffled voice asked, a life force standing very close to the door.

"Ailirah of Leyawiin, Fighters Guild!" Ailirah answered, and glanced back at me. "And Dagmar of the Mage's Guild!! With Savlian Matius and some half-dozen of the Kvatch Guard," she called.

The door creaked open, revealing a female soldier in Kvatch chainmail and a row of strained, grim-looking priests, all garbed in gray floor length robes, all of whom looked ready to blast us all back to Oblivion, should we prove to be Daedra.

"She…they're not Daedra," came the pronouncement from the priest on the far left, a man close to Lucien's age, maybe a little older, with piercingly blue eyes.

"No, we're not," Ailirah agreed. "Captain Matius is just behind me. Come on, let's get you people out of here," Ailirah said kindly, reassuringly.

"Just the same," the guard, bandaged at the shoulder, blood still seeping through the white cloth, shifted uncomfortably, but backed away to let us in out of the rain, "I'd like to wait for…Captain!" relief broke across her weathered face.

Matius followed in Ailirah's and my wake. I looked around –the priests were dispersing, to pass along the news that the siege was broken. I could see Ailirah looking from one face to the next, looking for her Martin.  
I withdrew to a quiet, shadowy corner, leaned against the wall and watched the scene, and kept a look out through the other side of the chapel. There were more Daedra, life forces shimmering, on the other side.

"Miss?" I jumped as a priestess appeared off to one side. Wow, Oblivion most have affected my nerves worse than I thought, if I'm that jumpy. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I smiled. "Save your skills for those who truly need them…"

"Oi! Dagmar?" Matius appeared before me. "You seen Ailirah?"

I was surprised he hadn't. He also had that manic look on his face. "Yes, I'll tell her you're looking for her, before I go."

"Go?" Matius blinked, owlishly.

"Yes, go," I said blandly. "The siege is broken, the Gate is closed. Now, I must do what I came to do: find my family."

"But…but the castle…Count Goldwine…we could use your help. You've got a great bow-arm, and a cool head…" Matius protested.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot," I said politely. "Ailirah will be more than help enough, I think," I inclined my head and left Matius, dumbstruck and fuming as I walked to the fore of the chapel, where Ailirah was being see to, by the priest with the blue eyes.

Calm was settling over me, but not the usual calm. This was heavy…because I was sure I knew what I would find when I got to the Sanctuary.

Nothing.

"Matius is ready for you," I said, and Ailirah and the priest looked up.

He got to his feet. "Are you..."

"Fine, thank you," I said, my voice a quiet murmur that nevertheless carried weight.

"Right, thank you bother," Ailirah bowed at the waist to the priest, who returned the gesture. "I take it from that, that you're not coming with us?" she asked astutely.

"I have family here. I have to find them," I repeated.

Ailirah seemed to have expected this, but that didn't mean she was not disappointed. "That's too bad…we could use your help," she held out a hand and I shook it. "And for that help you've given, I thank you." Her tone and expression indicated that she knew better than to argue the point, or force someone to go further with this than they would.

"Not at all – I could say the same of you – thank you. May I give you a piece of advice?" I asked.

"Sure," Ailirah smiled.

"Be careful what you volunteer for," I said.

Ailirah smiled. "Thanks…I think."

"Good luck. You'll need it, if Matius is up to what I think he is."

"The castle?" Ailirah asked.

I nodded.

"Well, I kind of figured he would want to…to find the Count…" she looked torn. "I…Dagmar, will you do me a favor?"

I arched my eyebrows. "What?"

"Find the priest, Martin, and keep an …keep him safe? Just until I can…can get to him?" She swallowed.

"Why?" I asked.

Ailirah's eyes flickered over my face and her lips moved. "Please – it's just…it's just important. I can't say," her brown eyes begged for me not to press the issue.

I sighed – she hadn't pressed the issue of my leaving before the castle was liberated, so I let the question drop. "If I do not find what I'm looking for, here, I will do my best," I sighed.

Ailirah looked like she wanted to press the issue, but then slumped. "Okay…thanks," she said, and gave me a look that indicated I had let her down, a little. But not totally, as I had not said 'no' either.

I turned and walked out of the chapel. It would take time for the guards to organize themselves, let along organize an evacuation of the survivors, get everyone packed up and convinced to move.

I had time to look, particularly as I knew where I was going.

I suppose one could say I owed Ailirah my life. I didn't see it that way. This was…a favor. For a friend.

What's the difference? Grace in the follow-through. Willingness versus obligation.

--S--

The enchantments on the Kvatch Sanctuary had been shattered. In fact, the black door, identical to the one that guarded the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, was broken in two, the roof beyond collapsed. There were no magelights, I had to use nighteye to see where I was going, and the house above the Sanctuary looked ready to topple over in the first strong wind to hit it.

I could see no life signs, nothing. The wards and spells I expected to find in the house, in the basement, in the Sanctuary were all dead. I could only hope that the Family had gotten out…I really hoped that they had. I reemerged to find it still raining as if the sky were crying for Kvatch. I walked over and sat down on the rubble near the gate out of Kvatch, the rain soaking into my clothes and hair.

No one approached me, until the guards came, with the survivors from the chapel.

"You're one of the ones who closed the gate…Matius said you'd left," the woman who had opened the door declared, looking startled.

"Quite the contrary. I'd like to volunteer to aid you, in getting these people safely to the camp at the foot of the hill," that was all it took for me to get back into good graces. I didn't expect my choice to win me any points with Matius – but I couldn't help but follow my guts, and my guts said to go ahead and do this favor for Ailirah.

Aside from which, I did rather like her. She was good to have at your back in a fight.

--S--

Brother Martin was, in fact, and perhaps ironically, the priest who had been seeing to Ailirah in the first place – the priest with the bright blue eyes. I sat on a large stone near the camp, bow across my knees, ready for anything to happen, and watched.

It was obvious he was distressed himself, but he pushed it back, and forced himself to do his duty as a priest. To lend aid and comfort where he could. He seemed a rather likeable fellow, if a little diffident –though that might simply have been the situation. He finally persuaded me to let him cast a few basic healing spells – I had burns and injuries I did not remember getting, hence the concern.

It was nice, I was forced to admit, when my shoulders stopped aching.

It was several hours, and getting late when the sentry cried that the liberators of Kvatch, and the Hero of Kvatch herself were coming.

I got up and walked over to my horse, still tethered, and dozing quietly and untied him, waking him gently.

It was not until I saw Ailirah that I swung up onto the beast to return to Cheydinhal, and saw the priest I had first met, the one who told me Matius was in charge, point to my rock as if to say 'she was just there'.

Ailirah grinned and her eyes swept the camp. She found me and beamed. I waved and turned my horse to leave, and headed back to Cheydinhal with all speed. Lucien and Vicente are going to want to hear all about this, and if I know the others, they'll worry – but not panic –that I got caught in that mess.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Destress

--

It took me nearly two days to get back to the Sanctuary – it was mid-afternoon when I gave the door the password and handed my cloak off to Tag.

Tag was jittery, obviously a little nervous, and I strode into the common room to see a Dunmer sitting in a chair, reading – a new face. He looked up as I walked in and a malicious grin broke across his swarthy features. He got to his feet, beaming and walked forward.

I knew instantly that this guy was no friend to me, that he was out to pick a fight. There's only one time people grin like that, and it's when they're about to make someone else miserable.

Whoo, he's picking a bad day to pick a fight with me. I'd had time to let my mind and emotions settle a little, but I knew the instant I saw that look that I was looking for someone to take my temper out on: a delayed reaction to stress, I guess.

He could have told me I looked like hell –which I did, I'll admit –and I'd have come unglued. I figured it was best to just get it out and get it over with. Usually I would have hoped for Vicente or someone else to show up and mitigate the argument, but not today.

"Well…if it isn't Lachance's little whore…" he beamed and opened his arms as if to say 'here you are'.

I felt my blood go cold in anger, and didn't even try to stop it. Oh…he's pushing the wrong buttons… "What did you say to me?" I asked, the cold fury in my tone.

"Well, that how you got _in_, right? Being his little pet and all…the way I heard it, the only reason you've goit as far as you have, in so short a time, was because you've got a tight ass and keep his bed warm…sides – that's what your family's _known_ for, isn't it…?"

Ah – he knows something about my family. That explains his choice of attack. "'_Your'_ family? Shouldn't it be _our_ Family?" I smiled, but it was humorless. This is my family now, after all. And he shouldn't insult it. "And come to that, just who the _hell_ are you?" I want to know whose ass I'm kicking.

"_I_ am Banus Alor, Eliminator...oh, don't get so mad, it's common knowledge…" I could tell by the look in his eyes that his next sentence was going to be a proposition.

I strode forward and _slapped_ him, but in the slap was contained _the_ strongest paralysis spell I knew – it was a spell I was still learning to use and use effectively - but I was in such a mood that any spell I cast would be stable as a rock and just as strong. Anger can do that to magicka.

"You little _s'wit."_ I snarled.

The spell rooted Banus in place, and when I punched him – as hard as I could - he couldn't do anything about it, but the thump caused Gogron to poke his head out of the kitchen.

"Oi!" he lumbered over as I knelt, straddling Banus' chest and covered his mouth and nose with both hands, murmuring a silencing spell. "Sari! Whoa!"

I snarled wordlessly at Gogron who back up. I think he meant to pick me up, to break up the fight.

Gogron hovered a little helplessly, as Banus started to turn purple and I finally let him breathe. He was sweating – he knew he had picked the wrong fight with the wrong girl on the wrong day…and he had no idea how far I'd snapped, and whether I'd actually try to kill him.

The Tenants were protecting him from this, of course, but that doesn't mean I can't beat him shitless.

I held up a finger and pointed at his nose. "Let's get this straight _lardass_," I snarled, "I am _no one's_ whore, least of all his," I slapped him a third time – it's an insult to be slapped around by a girl – and got up and kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could. I heard them snap. "And if you say any shit like that again, I'm _really_ going to make an effort to hurt you."

This isn't torture: this is _education_. The school of hard knocks.

"Problem…Sari?" Gogron asked in a growl that promised pain if I said yes. Apparently he had come to the conclusion that whatever I was upset about, he would take my side, and not because I might truly to beat him up. I think he might have had reason to suspect what was going on.

"Yeah – this ass of a Dunmer thinks I'm Lucien's _bitch_. How about that, huh?" I asked in a tone dripping with distaste and condescension.

"He said _what_?" Gogron has a low tolerance for slandering the women of the Sanctuary. He's like a very protective bigger brother. He hauled the unfortunate Banus –who was bruising from the blows I'd landed – to dangle from one massive fist by the throat and was growling softly, eyes narrowed. "I told you not to say that ever again," Gogron said and turned and walked Banus over to the nearest pillar and slammed him into it. "You should have listened. What do you want me to do to him, Sari? Snap him in half…or just..." Gorgon leered unpleasantly.

"Nah - turn him upside down and prop him up against a wall somewhere. I'm sure _someone _will notice and take pity on him…or maybe not. Depends on if he's been as charming to them as he has to me," I curled my lip in distaste.

"Well…I'll just lean him in the pantry – nice and quiet there. You know what they say about being nice: if you can't be nice, you go in the closet…but first…_apologize_," and Gorgon slammed Banus into the pillar again.

Banus whimpered in pain and mumbled something that might have been an apology.

"Apology accepted," I said caustically and nodded to Gogron when he arched his eyebrows, as if to ask if I was satisfied. With that Gogron stomped off. I heard him none to gently throw Banus into a corner somewhere.

_Lucien's whore. _

_That's what your family's _known _for, isn't it?_

The thought made my blood go from fury-cold to fury-hot and back again. So much so that I began to shake slightly, in a cold sweat. What kind of asshole says that to someone's face?

The kind looking for a fight.

He's an Eliminator; he outranks me, what the hell's his problem?!

I stood there, fuming as Smethwick and Tag both appeared to clean up the blood and spit Banus had sprayed everywhere.

I stepped off to the side to let them do it – the guardians are fastidious, if nothing else, and they don't like it when you're in the way of them cleaning.

I scowled: is that the rumor going around, then? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, if Banus comes from one of the Sanctuaries that doesn't think as highly of Lucien as we do here…or if he felt he ought to have gotten the Imperial Prison contract…or both.

I also know that Lucien himself is _not_ the sort to start that sort of rumor himself – he's a gentleman even if he's an assassin. Well, to us of the Family, anyway.

So someone else is talking. I need to find the wagging tongue and cut it out – I actually mean that.

I walked into the training room and began to pound the stuffing out of one of the practice dummies, barehanded, and within a few minutes I had bloody knuckles. That was when Telaendril came in. "Oh, love," she sighed and disappeared, returning with a medical satchel, and with a firm hand on my shoulder she guided me over to one of the chairs in the training room and sat me down. "Gorgon is in the kitchen again…and I have never heard him swear at the chili…"

"He's not swearing at the chili, he's swearing at an asshole," I grunted and hissed as she poured a disinfectant over my knuckles.

"Oh, love," Tel sighed and looked off to one side. "I meant to warn you about him…he's just an idiot…"

"He's a lot more than an idiot, Tel, and I think you know that," I said it calmly, but I flushed with anger and felt my cheeks burn. I wasn't hurt, contrary to all expectations – I was just angry. So unaccountably angry…

"Oh…what can he have said to make you _that_ angry?" Tel asked, looking up at me, her brow furrowed.

I explained and she scowled, but did not react as violently as I had.

"Well, that's easy to explain: Banus isn't the most well-mannered individual. He tried to feel Antoinetta up once – don't you tell her I told you - and Teinaava had to have a talk with him. I'm amazed he tried to start something in this Sanctuary again. He…he doesn't like Lucien. Neither does the Speaker of his district," Tel said. "There...there's been a death…" Tel added. "I think he was one of Banus' friends…Blanchard. Did you know him?"

"I take it a lot of people have a problem with Lucien?" I ignored the question, but I understood the ramifications. The Traitor was back in action, and people were now beginning to notice.

"Several," Tel said. "The fact is, is that if there needed to be a new Listener…Lucien would probably get the post. You know how he is."

"Cunning, resourceful, charming when he needs to be. Cold-blooded," I nodded.

"Jealousy does funny things to people. And you _are_ new here – so you make a better target. I don't think Banus expected you to…to retaliate…Well, stress does funny things to people, he knew you were coming straight back from Kvatch – everyone knew you'd gone there, after the news got out it had been attacked...and that'll send a message that you've got more going for you than a pretty face," Tel patted my cheek affectionately, much like a mother might.

I sighed. "Might not have gotten so upset if it was true…but what kind of idiot says that to a girl's face? And how did an idiot like that survive long enough to become an Eliminator?" I asked angrily.

"Dumb luck," Tel said. She started to wrap bandages around my knuckles. "Don't take these off until tomorrow," she ordered "You're not going to take Banus too seriously, are you?"

I sighed and toyed with the end of my braid. "It's just…a blow to pride. I take pride in my work, Tel…and to hear the suggestion that I'm just someone's trollop…a _bedwarmer_…on top of what happened at Kvatch..." I realized here that Tel seemed to know about Kvatch, and that she had not yet asked me to recount what had happened. It was almost like she had expected me to go off the deep end, if given an excuse. "It makes me want to kill something. Or some_one_," my voice shook a little. It's so unprofessional…I've got to get this under control…

Tel smiled. "You're young – when I was your age, _I_ would have been incensed, even without the stress of a Kvatch-scenario on my shoulders," Tel said gently, "What did you do to him?"

This was the second time she had invoked 'stress, it's not your fault', but I wasn't quite ready to buy it. I had quite willingly pounded Banus. I had quite willing accepted that I was in the mood for a fight as well. Didn't that make it even a little bit my fault?

"Paralyzed him, slapped him about a bit, silenced him, kicked him a bit and gave him over to Gogron. I told Gogron to turn Banus upside down and prop him up in a corner somewhere," Tel snickered, almost against her will, "but Gogron thought the pantry might be better."

Tel jumped to her feet. "That _trash_ in the _pantry_?"

"I thought we were supposed to be family, in the Brotherhood," I said mildly.

Tel smiled. "Family ties are tighter, when the family is close. Imagine him as some wayward, idiot cousin – he's family, but not well-liked, necessarily. I for one, can't stand half the Bravil Sanctuary's members. Classless ally-bashers. Tch," she sighed. "Come on – Gogron will let you test-taste the chili if you ask nicely."

It was an attempt to get my mindset back to a more normal plane.

I love Gogron's chili. I sighed and got to my feet, massaging my knuckles and feeling ashamed of my loss of temper, and tired, and just generally wrung out.

Tel took this as assent and shepherded me before her, towards the kitchen.

"Hey Gogron – Sari wants to test taste the chili…oh…well, that's unusual…." Tel blinked.

Banus was indeed propped neatly, upside-down, in a corner, his face purple from the blood rushing to his head, unable to move, or frame words. I smiled, my dislike for the 'mer flaring at the mere sight of him. "Still think I'm just some high muckety-muck's bitch?" I asked and turned my back on him to face Gogron. "Can I test taste it?" I asked.

Gogron chuckled – seeing that I was a little calmer, a little more stable - and nodded to a small bowl sitting off to one side.

I took it and cut myself a slice of bread, and one for Tel, then Gogron himself and the three of us tested the chili as a group. I realized here that I had not eaten properly in quite a while waybread is good, but only for so long. And it's not as nourishing as proper food. The chili was like heaven.

Tel says it's passable, but I _love_ it. "I _love_ it when you cook," I said around the chili and bread. Lots of chili, not so much bread.

"Gogron's cooking again…oh…hello Banus," Antoinetta said cheerfully, poking her head in then entering the kitchen upon espying me. She hugged me and then walked over to look at Banus. "I see you mouthed off to Sari. I _was _hoping to tell you it'd be a bad idea…but school of hard knocks and all…" Antoinetta turned. "What happened to your knuckles? Oh…well, never mind, I think I already know…" she looked over at Banus and then smirked.

"I need to talk to Vicente - is he…where's Tel?" I looked around.

Tel had disappeared.

Antoinetta giggled. "Probably to find Vicente, and wake him up…if you want to talk to him, you might want to get away from the chili…"

"This stuff's good for you!" Gogron barked, though he was grinning.

"Yeah, if you want hair on your backside," Antoinetta said. "I don't know about orcs, Gogron, but _human _men think hairy-assed women are _gross_. Better be careful, Sari."

I couldn't stop laughing at the image this conjured up, I had to find a place to sit and laugh until the tears came, and then I was crying like I couldn't believe. I'm not one for crying but I did so now, the back of my mind completely flummoxed as to why I should be.

"Oh…" Antoinetta scooted to sit beside me and wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulders. "It's okay…" she said, but she sounded uncomfortable.

"You know, Antoinetta…must be reassuring to know if the Family ever goes out of business…you can be someone's court jester. I think you'd be good at it…" I managed to stammer through my tears.

"I'm only as good as the people I pick on…" Antoinetta said gently.

"Sarielle, what's the matter?" Tel's voice asked, sounding positively alarmed.

"Out, everyone clear out. And take _that _with you – put it in my office. I want a word with it, once I've finished here," Vicente said, sounding calm, but there was a tremor of a threat in his tone.

Antoinetta and the others –even Gogron, carrying Banus under one arm – left.

Vicente knelt before me and took my hands. "I don't know why I'm c-crying…" I whispered, and then slid onto the ground to cry into Vicente's shoulder.

Vicente let me, wrapping one arm around my back and rubbing that spot between my shoulders with the other. "I do, and I assure you, it's usual," Vicente said quietly.

"It's emb-barassing..." I managed.

"I know. Fortunately, it's only me," Vicente said soothingly. "We had heard Kvatch was bad."

"It was like _hell_," I managed, pushing back so I could see Vicente's face.

"Yes, I suspect it was," he let one arm loose from around me and reached into his bathrobe pocket, then reached up and dabbed at my face with a handkerchief. "Now," he helped me to my feet and held my elbows in his hands. "Do you feel competent to report on Kvatch?" he asked.

"N-not Motierre?"

"Kvatch is more important – Motierre can wait. Here, sit down."

Vicente's calm was rubbing off on me, I had finally stopped crying, though I was shaking like mad. I recounted as best I could the events that had taken place, from start to finish.

--S--

"And she did not say why she was so interested in this priest?" Vicente asked.

I was nursing a cup of hot tea, and shook my head, feeling uncomfortably dead-calm in side. "No - just that it was important, that she couldn't tell me," I looked up at Vicente, who was leaning back against a counter. "Are you…going to tell me I should have watched my temper?" I asked a little hoarsely and sipped my tea for something to do.

I was surprised - it was sweet, but not sugary, and tasted vaguely fruity. I licked my lips and took another sip, inhaling the aroma deeply and feeling my tense muscles loosening.

"I? Tell you to watch your temper?" he smiled gently. "Hardly. Even if it were not a delayed-stress reaction –which is exactly what it is, Sarielle, and completely expected– I'm, quite pleased…

Well, if _Vicente_ was expecting something like this…then I guess things aren't as bad as I thought…even if I made up my mind to try harder to hold onto my temper next time someone started talking shit like that. 'Bad day' excuses aside.

"So I'm not…weak?" I asked.

"You are _human_," Vicente said firmly.

"You said…you were pleased?" I made it a question.

Vicente nodded, accepting that I was ready to finish the conversation. "Not only is Banus Alor a fool, and a pompous one at that, but I was beginning to worry you didn't really _have_ a temper to explode. That would be worrisome."

"You were worried…that I didn't have a temper?" that thought pierced my mental fog.

Vicente sighed. "Sarielle, despite what you may have been told growing up, sometimes temper can be useful. Anger can be fuel to get you out of a bad situation," I knew this – I'd done it in the past several days. "Seeing it now, like this, simply means you know when to use it, and when not – that it only shows when you cannot maintain your self-control, and if this is what it takes to break down your self-control…then I think you are well served. It is a trait of maturity."

"A trait of knowing it won't do any good to fuss," I said dryly. "I shouldn't have snapped at Banus…how much trouble is this going to cause?"

"Little or none. He's old enough to know that you do not make those sorts of remark to a ladv, unless you are ready for her, or whoever she's with, to take offense. And doubly so if she happens to be a skilled assassin - _that_ is just idiocy."

I nodded.

"What Banus is really sore about," Vicente smiled, "is that you've been promoted."

"What?" I dropped my teacup and it shattered. "Again?"

"Oh, Sarielle," Vicente sighed as I stooped to pick up the pieces.

Tag came shuffling in and shooed me off. "I'm sorry," I said to no one in particular.

"Yes, you've been promoted…to Eliminator," Vicente smiled. "The real problem is that Banus is threatened by you –and well he should be, it seems. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have a few words with him. I suggest you get cleaned up, and get a nap – nothing helps stress release like hot water and a good long sleep."


	29. Chapter 29

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Favor

--

It was raining outside. I could hear it on the well-entrance. Man, whoever opens that door –and it's going to be one of the higher ups – is going to flood our house. I've _never_ seen it rain this bad, in all my time here – though granted that wasn't as long as I make it sound. I was coping better with being stuck inside anymore - you just sort of learn to accept it. And I no longer felt like I was tripping over everyone, and being tripped over in turn.

The news about Kvatch was being circulated widely –though there was very little mention of me – as if Matius and Ailirah had arranged to have me left out of it. I was grateful, to be honest. It doesn't do for an assassin like me to make the front page of the papers.

What was worse – or at least, a more personal problem –was that another member of our Family had turned up dead. A man by name of Blanchard, as Telaendril said. Vicente let me in on the progress of the Traitor and what was being done in regards to that, once I'd gotten a bath, a nap, supper, and a good night's sleep, in that order.

He was right, too –I did feel much closer to normal after all three, and could even look at Banus Alor the next day without feeling much more than a mild surge of dislike –somewhat stronger than the one I felt for M'raaj Dar.

Turns out that with my promotion, Vicente no longer would be handling my contracts – I would go directly to Ocheeva from here on in. I smiled a little, and wondered what had prompted the promotion. Vicente said it was because I was efficient, and had performed exceedingly well for someone so new. I don't know about that…but I didn't question it too closely either.

Anyway, it was raining.

I was ensconced near the fireplace in the common room, draped across a chair like an expensive black shawl, reading a book I'd borrowed from Telaendril. The library here isn't exactly equipped for pleasure-reading, but Tel is a bookworm – and tends to donate her older books to the library…I don't know. Perhaps for a sense of normalcy: I've never seen so many ways to kill a person written down so bluntly in one place.

I shifted and tried to ignore the heavy dankness of the air, and the slow shuffle and jingle of a dark guardian as it dragged itself across the complex, heavy sword in hand, its magical breath rasping softly.

Schemer shifted in my lap, sleeping, and I freed a hand to stroke his back and closed my eyes. Strange how what people could call 'weird' or 'scary' sounds have become as much part of the tapestry of my life as rain on the glass back in Anvil. Strange: I don't miss that life anymore. I don't feel the ache of having divorced myself form it…from the Mages' Guild.

In fact, I realized that Banus' taunt about my family's reputation had been the very least of my worries.

I'm here, now…I have family, people who appreciate my skills and dispositions….job satisfaction. And no one treats me like a kid…not in earnest, anyway. And there's intelligent conversation, past the bounds of what we're going to wear and who likes whom – though we do have those talks on our girls' nights in.

I had drifted so far in my reverie that I had stopped paying attention to my surroundings and my book, so when it slipped from my knee as I continued to stroke Schemer's back, as if he were an overgrown housecat –I didn't notice.

"Sarielle," Vicente made himself known and I only half registered his presence. I gave up trying to hear the others' footsteps – all I got was a big headache, and never got any more adept at hearing them. Vicente doubly so –I don't know what it is about being undead, but the man's like a ghost.

Silent when he walks.

He wandered into my peripheral vision and retrieved my book, closed it and handed it back to me. "Thanks," I said absently, taking the book and balancing it on my knee. I tore my eyes from the fire and smiled. "What's up?" I saw his grim expression and supposed it must be a contract – before remembering that he wasn't giving me contracts anymore. Which meant trouble, I immediately assumed, and moved Schemer onto the floor – he chattered at me in annoyance at having been dislodged and promptly streaked off to hide under someone else's bed.

"I was wondering if I might ask you for a favor, Sarielle," Vicente said, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Ask," I shrugged, a little surprised. I wonder what kind of favor it is: because Vicente doesn't feed off Family members – he says that would be incredibly bad manners, and I quite agree. Though in an emergency…I might change my mind, so long as I don't wake up undead three days later.

"I have a friend in a dilemma. It is a matter completely unrelated to the Dark Brotherhood…so I am hesitant to ask you to take part," always so polite. It's really quite a compliment that he _is _asking – because I'm perfectly free to say no, unlike with contracts.

Refusing a contract is not only stupid, as it jeopardizes your reputation, it's also a sign of weakness. So if you say 'not today' you'd better have a damn good reason, and that reason better satisfy whichever one of the higher-ups you're reporting to.

Ocheeva might be a little easier to get past…but imagine telling Vicente or Lucien 'I've got a headache, not today'.

Hoo…

"Ask," I repeated.

"My…you have heard me speak of Count Hassildor, of Skingrad?" Vicente said, finally cutting to the chase. It did not take an archmage to figure that the situation was delicate.

"Yes," I nodded. Mostly just in passing – though I find it unsurprising for two vampires who have successfully – or apparently successfully – separated hunger and humanity (for want of a better word) out. I suppose we could call it 'civilized'…but that's not a word I usually like to use. It's too subjective.

"There is a…a task that he would… would like done. On our last meeting, I told him I would see if I could not find someone who could handle the matter. It is…rather delicate."

"'Delicate'?" I frowned. "Vee…what's he want done?"

"I…it is a delicate matter. I would tell you, if I could. If you are…are not adverse, I should like to send you to Skingrad, so he may present his request in person. I am sorry…" he looked like he wished he could tell me more.

"Vee? Is this…a problem that could spread to _you_?" I asked. I was thinking some kind of vampire-exclusive version of…I don't know. Some killer sickness.

"Oh, no, no, not at all. It is merely personal in nature," Vicente said quickly, seeing he had worried me.

"Well, it can't hurt. I'll see what he wants…and do what I can. How's that?"

I trust Vicente.

He'd never send me to another vampire, if he thought I might get my throat torn out…or wind up on the menu. Whatever this is about, it's something Vicente can't do…and apparently the Count can't do. Because not everyone knows that…how is it Vicente puts it? 'That the Count rather enjoys his evenings'.

Vicente looked relieved. "I am glad to hear it…you possess subtlety and tact, two traits that will be absolutely necessary. Remember: the Count's…condition…is not widely known…" he trailed off.

"I'll keep it under my hat," I smiled.

"Walk with me," we started down for Vicente's office and once there he sat down at his desk and pulled a sheet of paper off the stack and inked his pen. "This letter you will give to Count Hassildor. His seneschal is an Argonian by name of Hal-Liurz, simply tell her that I sent you to see Janus," Vicente said. "The letter you will give to him – it will introduce you, and give you my endorsement," Vicente signed the paper with a flourish.

I stole a glimpse of the missive over his shoulder and smiled.

…_an adept young lady with a talent_ _for solving problems. Secrecy and silence are her boon companions, and she bears all the traits that our Speaker favors…_

"Does the wording please you?" Vicente asked with a slight smile, probably watching my shadow fall across the paper. Or maybe he knows I'd try and see what he was saying, to make sure he wasn't talking bad about me…I meant that as a joke, you know.

I noticed that Vicente invoked the Speaker…I wondered vaguely if that meant that Hassildor had had occasion to employ the Dark Brotherhood, at one point or another. Or maybe he knows Lucien in passing, as Vicente's apprentice.

"Yeah, but you forgot to mention I'm drop-dead gorgeous and have a thing about sweets," I teased.

"Janus is married, Sarielle," Vicente answered blandly back.

"Doesn't stop _me_ from being gorgeous, though," I chuckled and patted his shoulder. "You really think I've got those good traits?" I asked. It was not a question for approval – I felt he was sort of putting it on a bit thick.

"My dear," Vicente folded the paper and sealed it with hot wax, "I have been in this Sanctuary for Lucien's entire career – I trained him myself. I know the man very well – and I know you fairly well," he handed me the message and I took it. "Incidentally, what do you think? Now that you and Lucien have decided to play nicely?" what he meant was this by 'play at all'.

I had seen Lucien several times since returning from Kvatch and twice he'd been in top form, as far as our witty wordplay goes, so much so that I literally sat down and threw up my hands and just _gave up._ There was no point in trying- I was bested before I ever opened my mouth.

Our little game gives the Sanctuary much amusement, by the way – and we both get needled by the rest of our Sanctuary mates. I think even M'raaj Dar is giving me 'get him' looks every so often.

"Am I allowed to voice my honest opinion?" I asked.

"I did ask for it," Vicente said, shifting comfortably in his chair. Vicente, I think, likes keeping an idea of what's going on behind the wordplay – how perceptions alter, so he can read more into what's actually said. To find out how far one has gotten into the other's head.

I considered. "He's possibly the cleverest man I've ever met I my life. You can tell just by looking at him," I chewed my lip and then hefted myself to sit on the empty corner of Vicente's desk, idling kicking one foot. "He might be part of the necessary bureaucracy…but I don't get the impression that he's a bureaucrat...you know? I think he still remembers how to get his hands dirty…and misses it," I beamed. "I also think he's going to take my head off, one of these days."

"Mmm," and I got the impression that I had just voiced an inaccuracy, but Vicente didn't confirm this. "Well, I think it's good for Lucien to be reminded what it's like to be on the other end of his own tactics," Vicente smiled. "He always did enjoy verbal chess. Incidentally, do you know the game?"

"I know _of_ it," I said doubtfully, "but I don't play."

"Hmm," Vicente nodded again. "Well," he patted my hand. "There's your letter, you have your instructions."

"Speaking of Lucien…won't he be a little upset that I just ducked out on personal business?" strictly speaking, we're free to gallivant off whenever we like, even though we're technically 'on call' all the time.

Vicente smiled. "_I_ sent you, he won't complain, I don't think."

I shrugged: good enough for me, though I suspect that when I get back there'll be a nasty, complicated, or otherwise troublesome contract waiting just for me. I smiled – I kind of look forward to it.

--S--

Arriving just after dusk, dressed in black and dark green – a little sinister but I didn't exactly scream 'assassin walking' - I reached the bottom of the short flight of stairs that led into the Castle Skingrad and was greeted by an Argonian – Hal-Liurz, according to Vicente - dressed in a deep purple gown that drew out the oddly purple tinge to her scales. Argonians are colorful creatures, compared to humans. "Good evening Miss," she inclined her head.

"I'm here to see Count Hassildor," I said calmly. "I was sent by Master Valtieri, who sends his regards."

Hal-Liurz's eyes grew wider as I smiled. "Of...course. One moment, please, I shall…shall tell the Count…" she knows. She knows what I am. Hal-Liurz, however, did not show any further discomfort, but walked calmly out of the great hall, and within ten minutes was back. "Please come this way, Miss –the Count will see you. He asks that you join him for the evening meal."

"His Grace is very kind," hm. Vicente never mentioned anything like that…but I suppose it is a little early for a vampire – I'm used to Vicente being up at all hours of the day and night. Being underground there's no threat of sun.

The castle was a luxurious place, and in the residential part there was a…a stillness that reminded me vaguely of a crypt. A sort of still, silent ambiance, even though there were the noises of a proper household. It was the lingering sense that something was…strange.

"In here," Hal-Liurz opened a door and stepped in, holding it open for me.

I walked past her and looked around as she shut the door. Count Hassildor was sitting at a table big enough for six, but set for two, one place at the head – where he sat –the other at the foot. "Your Grace, Miss…"

"Yes, Vicente's courier, Thank you, Hal-Liurz you may go. Send the servitors," Count Janus Hassildor said calmly.

Hal-Liurz browsed and withdrew through another door.

"Please, sit," the Count motioned to the other place.

"Master Valtieri sends his regards, and this correspondence," I delicately withdrew the letter from inside the cloak I was still wearing and held it up.

He motioned to the chair again and I sat down. A moment later the servitors entered, and one of them took the letter from where it lay by my forks to the Count. I watched. I was a little surprised – Vicente looks a little…haggard….at the best of times. Count Hassildor, however, looked quite normal. Either he's taken better care of himself or –which I think is more likely – he's just not as old.

The servitors withdrew and the Count refolded the letter and it disappeared into an inner pocket of his vest. "Please," he motioned and I took a sip of my wine, not really inclined to eat. "We may speak freely here."

"Excellent," I said and set the goblet down. I'm not much of a judge of wine, but I knew that whatever he had _wasn't_. If I didn't spend so much time around Vicente, it might have unnerved me. "I was told that you had a matter of a personal nature that required…a delicate touch."

"Did Vicente not tell you?" Count Hassildor asked, his goblet stopping halfway between the table and his mouth.

"Vicente did not – he said it was a personal matter, and therefore, not his place. Though, I have drawn the conclusion that it has to do with either the…ah…politics of the life dark-shrouded, or the politics of the life-nocturnal," Assassins or vampires.

"Vicente speaks highly of your abilities, so I shall be frank," I knew he was watching me very closely, without giving the appearance of doing so. To be polite I began to toy with the food before me, but I still didn't feel like eating. I'd made sure that I would be ready for a long night of errand-running. The stone embedded in my ring was still red – though I was quite sure that this was not a place I in which I needed to worry about poison.

Vicente would never have sent me, if there was a question of my safety.

I smiled. "Vicente says that this mission will likely require a great amount of…subtly."

"Indeed," the Count nodded and then sipped at his drink. "It has come to the point where I need to find a cure. For porphyric hemophila."

I didn't react, though I would have liked to. "Forgive the question, Your Grace, but have you tired of the life nocturnal?" I smiled benignly.

The Count smiled back, and I knew I had just been approved for something. "No, the cure is not for me. It is for my wife, Rona."

"Oh?" I think that it's best to just imitate Vicente here, be calm, and be cool. Don't tip your hand that this is the weirdest conversation you've ever had…

"Yes," he sighed heavily and leaned back in his high-backed chair, one arm on the armrest, the other holding his drink, looking into the distance. "My Rona…fifty years ago, we were both…turned. I came to embrace the change. When she changed…" he stopped and shook his head slowly.

"She didn't take to it," I filled in gently, "please, continue. I don't need the details, Your Grace."

The Count nodded gracefully, gratefully. "Indeed, that is one way to put it. She did not embrace the Dark Gift, refused to feed. She has…slipped into a coma, and has slept ever since," the pain was evident. "Being undead, she cannot die, and being unsuspected, I cannot call attention to our…condition," the Count continued. "My trusted servants have cared for her all this time, but I wish for her to at last find peace. The cure is for her," he said this with a very human tenderness that belied the fact that he could shred me from limb to limb – assassin or not –should he so choose. A deep love, that was sweet, even if it was now pain.

"I have reached a point where I have sufficient research as to a cure for her, so that she may finally be free, but in her delicate condition," his voice dropped, "…she may well pass…pass beyond. Though I suspect that that may even be another form of freedom for her. The risk of exposure grows too great. That is where you come in, Mistress Sarielle."

It was strange being addressed so formally but I kept my expression unperturbed.

Count Hassildor examined my expression for a moment then smiled slightly, showing the barest hint of fangs. I could feel my heart beating a little nervously, and I think that was what amused him. I might fool a normal person, but you don't fool vampires by smiling and being calm. You get points for trying though.

"So you wish for me to continue your research?" I asked.

"Indeed –you will draw less attention. Even less than less, with your…unique skill sets. There is a Witch of Glenmoril, by name of Melisande. It is rumored that their sisterhood has long held the secret for removing the Dark Gift from a supplicant – it is my wish that you would travel to her home, and recover this cure."

I smiled. "Where can I find her?"

Count Hassildor paused as the next course was served –it occurred to me that I might be here for awhile. I had barely picked at the first, and the servitor glanced at the plate, then at me, nervously, and I realized he thought there might be something I thought wrong with it.

The Count and I maintained silence until the servitors had cleared away. "The witch can be found, so my sources say, along the Corbolo River, east of the Imperial City, and almost due south of your city of Cheydinhal."

I looked down at my plate and found the correct fork and knife , and took a bite. It was really good. "Any special constraints, conditions, or restrictions I should know about?" I asked, sipping my wine again.

The Count smiled, and I felt my professionalism – even though this wasn't about bloodshed –was being complimented. "Mistress, so long as the cure is found, recovered, and brought here, I care little for your tactics, methods, or approaches. So long as the _reason_ for your activities is not traced back to me."

I smiled. "Then I shall begin immediately."

"Better your finish your supper – certainly, we can pretend to be civilized individuals?" I noticed here that he had been served as well, though he had merely shuffled and rearranged the contents of his plate.

"Of course, Your Grace," I smiled and took another bite of my supper.

Most of the conversation was fairly superfluous, a show for the servitors and anyone else who might have seen me come in. I understood the subtlety – Hal-Liurz knew that the Count had been entertaining an assassin…or an assassin's lackey, I suppose was an equally good supposition – and it was best if it looked little less suspicious.

--S--

It was strange being back in Skingrad. My first kill, the one that attracted the attentions of the Brotherhood, had occurred here. A Bosmer, mad as a hatter, and I deemed too paranoid to let me just walk away after awhile. I had felt no remorse…more like I was doing a civil service to the city.

It seemed like another life…completely separated from my own –a life that belonged to a whole different being.

I still felt no remorse - merely a sense of nostalgia. I hadn't been in Skingrad since. It's a lovely city, I thought. If I ever set aside enough money, I think I'd like to buy a house here – you know. For when I take a weekend, or have business in the city.

Or if ever Antoinetta decides to make her infamous garlic soup.

I smiled as I reclaimed my horse and headed back for the Sanctuary. I wanted to get a good look at our Map.

--S--

The Map was one of the tools that I did not often use, though it was a beautiful piece of work. The Map was in the library, and took up an entire wall, a massive render of Cyrodiil, with many towns, waypoints, etcetera all listed with the sort of attention to detail I like to put into my contracts, or my potions.

"Did all go well?" Vicente asked, as I stood on a chair and scowled at the area that Hassildor had claimed would be the place where the witch could be found.

"Well enough – I'm just doing some homework," I answered and blocked off a span of Map about twelve inches wide with my hands, scowling thoughtfully. Pass me a sheet of parchment, would you, please?" I asked off handedly, holding out a hand.

A moment later parchment was placed there, and without my asking Vicente brought pen and ink. He even held the inkwell so it was at about waist-height, and I held the thin paper over the area I wanted to trace. The Map showed through the thin parchment clearly, and I inked down the major landmarks. "The Count says hello," I said, re-inking the pen.

"I'm sure," Vicente said, and I could feel him watching with great curiosity the segment of land I was inking. He did not ask about the mission, just as he had not wanted to discuss its nature. "Do you think you can do this thing that Janus asks?" Vicente asked finally.

"I don't know. I'm going to try…if any contracts come through for me…can you get a hold of me?"

"I shall wait for you to come back, and have Ocheeva hold them for you," Vicente said.

My shoulders were starting to hurt from drawing my map. "Okay," I nodded, and stepped off the chair, taking the inkwell from Vicente with an off-handed 'thank you' and walked over to a table, where I continued to reference the Map and write out the names. It was easier than tracing them.

This is where we go to find places, if we don't know where they are already. Assassins who have been here longer probably don't need maps, but as this was a sort of out-of-the-way place, I felt it best not to take my chances.

I finished my notes and considered. The best way to do this might actually be to take a boat – if she's a witch, I get the feeling she might be posing as the more benign position of greenwitch –in which case she'll be easy to find. However, that's an assumption, and I don't like to make those out of hand.


	30. Chapter 30

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Twenty Nine: The Cure

--

I found the place without too much trouble. She _had _been posing as a greenwitch – the only one for quite a distance, as I learned. I found her trail in Harlun's Watch, and made my way south and east from there.

The witch's name was Melisande, and she was reported to live in a small cottage - Drakelowe - north of the place where the Corbolo River becomes the Reed River. I did not go in the dusk hours when I finally found her – I camped out, and waited until morning. I wanted to make a better impression - she didn't need to know what I do for a living, after all, and it would be unseemly to pay a visit so late at night.

So bright and early I knocked on her door and she answered. Melisande was a Breton of many years. Her eyes glittered with intelligence and a wisdom brought by old age. "Pardon me," I said in my best 'see what a nice girl I am?' manner. "I am looking for the greenwitch Melisande."

"Well, you've found her," Melisande's voice was a little gravelly, though not unkind. "What do you want?"

"I was told you are a Witch of Glenmoril," I said calmly, watching her face.

Her hand tightened on the doorframe and her eyes became guarded, shrewd and calculating. "Oh my," the look had been there for only a moment, but long enough for me to notice, "what makes you think that, my dear?" she smiled.

I smiled back. "Rumors." I remembered something Lucien had once said, with that twinkle of dark humor that would be lost on anyone outside the Family in his eyes: My dear Sister, I do _not_ spread rumors. I _create_ them.

That was when I told him he shouldn't be saying that, and to talk to Vicente about the latest rumors floating around. Yeah –that was right after I rearranged Banus Alors' face. I didn't see any reactions from Lucien after that, but Vicente was smirking when I popped in to ask him something, later on. So I can only imagine the discomfort our dear Speaker went through.

I love my job – match to Sarielle.

"My dear, you shouldn't trust rumors. They can get you into horrible trouble," she said chidingly.

I smiled again. "But in this case, I do not think I am mistaken. You know how to cure vampirism, do you not?"

Melisande was silent then stepped aside, her expression grim. "Come in."

I stepped past her and when she motioned to one of the two chairs before the fire I sat down. She was watching me warily, with great effort not to appear worried. She sat down across from me and I looked about. The cottage was neat – everything in a place, and a place for everything. Her alchemy workbench was set below a massive cupboard, and between two large pantries, or closets. I could smell the herbs, and a hint of several that were rather nefarious.

I could smell the harrada – it's very distinctive – mingled with fennel and motherwort…hmm. Sounds like the beginnings of something nasty… "May I inquire about this project of yours?" I asked, standing up and walked over to the table.

"You might," Melisande said. "But I'm more interested in your purpose here."

I smiled. "Then let's talk."

It was Melisande's turn to smile. "I would love to help you, dear, but I'm afraid that information isn't free. You do me a small favor, and then we'll talk about this cure you seek," she said.

I smiled - quite the mercenary, isn't she? "What is it you need?"

"You look like the capable sort: if you can bring me five empty Grand Soul Gems, I'm quite sure I can help you with whatever it is that you seek. I shall await your return," she smiled.

Which is to say, she doesn't expect me to be able to do it, and it's an excuse to get me out of her hair. I left at the dismissal.

Grand Soul Gems. Five.

I really hope that Hassildor appreciates the effort this is going to take. They're not exactly a septim a dozen, you know. Fortunately for me, I have contacts.

--S--

I finally found the gems – it was like the scavenger hunt from hell. But, I managed. Melisande was stewing something that smelled seductively wonderful…and I realized why. It _was _seductive – possibly the strongest love potion I had ever had chance to whiff. Right now, it smelled of sandalwood, possibly due to the small block of sandalwood standing on the table, by a knife. It was apparent that Melisande had added sandalwood shavings to the concoction – innovative.

I'll have to remember that. "Hmm...someone wants something naughty," I announced mildly as she walked back to her bench.

"I'm not opposed to helping along young love," Melisande said with a sort of grim amusement.

"No, of course not," I looked over her shoulder. The potion had already been strained – she was boiling out impurities. "So...is it for love…or just lust?" I asked.

"Do you have something for me, dear?" Melisande asked, a little impatiently.

I unshouldered the courier's bag I had the soul gems in and set it down by her elbow. "Of course I do."

"I don't ask those sorts of questions," Melisande said, in response to my previous question.

"Ah, probably wise," I agreed. "Still, I have to compliment your skill. Sandalwood – expensive, but…unusual. Innovative," truth, and I was being charming.

"That's very sweet of you," yes, we're both being polite.

I don't really like or dislike Melisande. I simply accept that I must do business with her.

She checked the soul gems once the love potion was on to simmer, shimmering softly. It was almost colorless, and would take on the flavor of whatever it was put into. It's insidious, this particularly brew. I couldn't identify all the components, but I knew which ones were most prevalent. You only need two or three ingredients to make a potion – all the others are used to balance out weaknesses, or draw out strengths.

"Now, let's talk about this cure," I prompted after allowing Melisande a few minutes to ogle at her new Soul Gems.

"Yes…yes, I can make such a thing for you. The knowledge is old – nearly forgotten, and no," she added with a steely glint in her eyes, "I do not intend to teach it to you."

"Of course."

"But, I need a few things," Melisande glanced over at me.

"More?" I arched my eyebrows. I do believe that I've been duped.

Melisande continued as if she had not noticed my signs of annoyance. "To start, I'll need six cloves of garlic, two shoots of bloodgrass, and five leaves of nightshade. Those will be easy enough for you to find," she said simply.

"Are you sure it's a cure and not a poison? Because it sounds like one," I frowned.

"Is your friend allergic to garlic?" Melisande asked archly.

"Nn," I grunted. "I'll be back…"

"But," she added as I was halfway to the door, "I'll also need the blood of an Argonian, and the ashes of a powerful vampire. Those may be... more difficult for you to acquire."

Not really – the Argonian would be easy. The ancient vampire…not so much so. But then again, I _am_ a member of the Dark Brotherhood…and if I can't pull something out of my metaphorical hat, I don't deserve to be. But, that's not the kind of question I can take to Vicente – or the Count. In fact, I think it's best the Count not know what's going into this…jungle juice, of Melisande's.

"I don't suppose you've heard any rumors yourself, about an ancient vampire?" I asked calmly.

She did, and when I pulled out my map and asked if she could mark the location, Melisande was surprised. The problem was that the location was – according to rumor only – on the other side of the empire.

Doesn't it figure?

--S--

Redwater Slough was a cavernous complex that was a place not meant to be found. It was only dogged perseverance and a lot of mosquito-repelling herbs that got me there. I hate being in and around Leyawiin and Bravil – the climate is most disagreeable. I was hot and sticky when I reached the Drunken Dragon Inn – one of the few major landmarks I had been able to locate on the Map back at the Sanctuary. And from there, I trekked to Redwater Slough proper – and the vampire Hindaril.

I don't think his name much matters – what matters is that I'm getting close to the end of this damn 'favor for a friend' business. Note to self: never, _ever_ volunteer out of hand like this again.

I have finally learned my lesson.

Hindaril was an Altmer, and I use the past-tense on purpose.

I treated this like any other assassination, which I felt was the most prudent thing to do. Which meant a ranged weapon, poison, and magic. Silver arrows aren't cheap, but I only needed five or six – any more than that and I'm in the wrong place.

Those got, I coated them in a very potent poison, and only then did I venture out of Leyawiin and back to Redwater Slough.

It was a long walk, moving silently, and working not to be noticed. Hindaril was lurking in the very back of his cavernous retreat, and never saw me coming. He didn't hear me either because I stopped far enough back at that I was sure he wouldn't hear my heartbeat…which meant that I had to aim very precisely in order to hit him and not miss. If I miss, I am in so much trouble…

The first arrow found its mark, the second missed because Hindaril whipped around, in pain and confusion as to where the evil silver arrow had come from. It was all I could to get off another shot, which again failed to kill him – only to wound.

You don't get to be an ancient vampire by being weak or stupid – the second arrow betrayed my position to Hindaril, but the poison on the arrows was not something he could not dispel, so he was somewhat slowed.

Lucky for me.

I backpedaled and shot another arrow, which impacted solidly in his chest.

The poison was not so much meant to ruin his health – though it would take a bite out of it. What it actually did was make sure that Hindaril couldn't regenerate. Vampires need blood to replenish their own, and in simple terms, Hindaril would bleed out if I could stick enough arrows in him, because the poison on them would also keep what blood he did have from clotting.

Putting the hemophilia in pophyric hemophilia.

So, I got the ashes, nicked an Argonian on my way through Leyawiin, did the grocery shopping for Melisande's jungle juice, and promised myself if there was one more crazy thing I had to do for this, I was going to employ some more stringent methods of getting things done.

Grr.

--S--

I delivered everything to Melisande and she promised me that the potion would be ready to go in twenty-four hours. So I hauled my tired, mosquito-bitten body back to the Sanctuary, took a cold bath and flopped onto my bed, facedown and didn't wiggle, even when Schemer chattered at me to pick him up and give him attention.

Sorry critter – I'm feeling ornery.

--S--

Melisande was in good spirits when I arrived the requested day later. In far better spirits than I was, and I think she noticed, because she cut the crap and forked over the potion with only a few instructions. There was enough for two doses – one, I thought, for the Count's wife…and one for an emergency, I suppose. You never know when you'll need a handy-dandy cure for vampirism.

Happily, the potion in my hand balanced out some of my bad mood, to the point that I actually left Melisande's cottage on good terms with her. I wondered how she was at brewing exotic, or difficult potions.

--S--

I arrived in Skingrad by midday and sighed, flopping down on the low stone wall that surrounded a statue and miniature garden, in the city itself. It was far too early for _any_ vampire to be awake. Vicente won't usually be awake at high noon – no matter what, so the idea of the Count up that early was laughable.

So I did what any girl in a strange place does: I went shopping.

Skingrad had a magnificent row of shops, and I even found a few things for Antoinetta and Telaendril. Well, you can only shop so long, so I dropped off Sufferthorn to be sharpened, as well as the Blade of Woe, even though I don't use her often. Still, I like to keep her around - you never know when you might need the help – and I like her weight resting on my hip.

And I loitered until dusk at the West Weald Inn, deep in talk with an alchemist I discovered there, by name of Sinderion. It was during this conversation that I learned about a rare but incredibly versatile plant. Turns out, Sinderion was happy to discourse at length about his work, the nirnroot, wine, and nirnroot.

From what he says, I - and my colleagues, but he doesn't know about them - might find the herb rather useful – it's quite toxic by itself. I'll have to keep my eyes open on the trip home – if I can find enough to experiment with…who knows what could happen? Might come up with something interesting.

--S--

I stepped into the Great Hall of Castle Skingrad just after the sun fell. For a vampire, it's probably pretty early, but I also figured that with the news I had to deliver, it would be a welcome early morning. Hal-Liurz saw me immediately and hurried over. "Miss Sarielle?" I could tell she was wondering if I was good news or not.

"Is His Grace available?" I asked, taking my cloak off and draping it over my arm.

"It's a little early for him…but I shall ask…may I ask you what…" Hal-Liurz trailed off.

"It is with regards to the task he set me," I said simply.

Her eyes swept my face, looking for, perhaps, a trace of whether or not I was successful. I don't think she had much hope of that because she sighed, nodded, and walked off to see the Count.

She came back within five minutes and stopped in front of me. "The Count will see you now, this way, please," and with that I trotted up the stairs, not to the dining room where the Count had originally met with me, but to a library. "He will be here in a few moments. Please, make yourself comfortable," Hal-Luirz said, and then walked out.

I didn't sit down, but rather, walked over to the bookshelves and began to look over the names on the spines of the books. The place smelled headily of unread pages – you know, that book smell? Our library just smells a little dank…of dark secrets and darker lore.

It was another fifteen minutes or so, by the water clock on the wall, before the door opened and Count Hassildor entered, looking apprehensive. "Well?" he asked.

I smiled. "I have something for you," I reached into the pocket of my dress and drew out one of the small crystal bottles and held it up, so that it caught the light, the purple liquid catching the light, dark red motes dancing in the liquid. It was a pretty effect, I must admit.

I held it out and Count Hassildor took it as if it were the most precious artifact he had ever seen – like a relic, or reliquary. "This is the potion from the witch, Melisande of Drakelow," I watched him inspect it, and saw a flicker of doubt, which vanished moment later as he eyed me closely – reminding himself, I was sure, what I am, and who I live with.

After all, if this goes bad, I've still got to go home and tell Vicente. "Thank you, Mistress Sarielle," Hassildor said slowly. "I…please wait here, make yourself comfortable."

And with that he turned and swept out, a man on a mission.

I selected a likely looking book and draped myself over a chair – he _had_ told me to make myself comfortable, after all. After a half-hour or so, Hal-Liurz appeared and bowed her head politely. "The Count requests that you remain as his guest. He will speak with you after he has the affairs of his wife in order."

"Then she is well?" I asked, though I didn't really think so. There was something in the Argonian's posture that bespoke loudly that Rona had died.

"No, no she is dead," Hal-Liurz said. "Perhaps if we had found the cure sooner…when she was stronger…"

"I'm sure His Grace did all he could," the words were automatic, but sounded genuine and kindly. And I wasn't even using illusion spells to do it.

Hal-Liurz gave me a funny look. "You're a funny sort of assassin."

"Assassin? Me?" I smiled and chuckled. "Wherever did you get _that_ idea? I happen to be a member of the Mages' Guild," I said and watched her scaly features break with surprise.

"But you said…" the Argonian shook herself and as she did so I flicked a finger discreetly in her direction. A small spell, just enough to make her like me enough to dismiss the notion of my being a killer for hire out of hand.

"Yes, of course," the Argonian smiled. "Please, follow me. Shall I have a bath heated for you?"

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you – I must get my things from the Inn…"

"At which inn were you staying? I shall have a man dispatched to retrieve your things," Hal-Liurz said. "The Count was most explicit: you are a friend, and a friend's friend. Have you had supper, yet?"

"The West Weald Inn," I smiled – the charm spell is working _very_ well. Guess it was only a passing notion that I might be an assassin. "Not yet, though I would not wish to put undue pressure upon the household."

"Nonsense," Hal-Liurz said, and waved off my politeness. "Would you prefer supper in private, or to join the household?"

"In private, if I may. I'm afraid that I'm rather shy in such settings," I said.

Hal-Liurz chucklde, a rasping sound not unlike Ocheeva's laugh. "Very well, I shall have it sent up, after your bath."

Hal-Liurz was nothing if not efficient, and within ten minutes I was soaking in a steaming bath scented with lavender. My things deposited in the other room – for my suite had its own bathroom – I was looking forward to a good rest. I closed my eyes and relaxed in the hot water, and wondered whether the Count would still feel death was an acceptable release for his wife, now that she was gone.

--S--

The Count summoned me for an extremely early breakfast on the third day of my visit – which would allow me to head straight back to Cheydinhal as soon as I concluded my business here. He looked tired and wan, even for a vampire.

"How are you faring, Your Grace?" I asked politely from my end of the table.

"Tired…but I feel…a sense of release. At least Rona suffers no longer," he said collectedly, then sighed. "You will be returning home today," It was not a question.

"Yes," I nodded. "I've been away far too long. I'm sure I have paperwork up my ears," I sighed.

And a couple of nasty swamp-slogging contracts, courtesy of Lucien and his crooked sense of humor.

I smiled, though. At least those will be more straightforward than _this_ dog and pony show.

"You have my gratitude, Mistress," Count Hassildor said. "I should like to give you some sort of reward. The service you have rendered my wife and I is…quite staggering."

"It is not necessary," I responded politely, "I was happy to do it," okay, so I lie a little bit.

Hassildor smiled. "I see Vicente teaches his students diplomacy, these days."

I gave my head a sort of incline off to the side: read into it what you will. Some of the charisma is _mine_, you know.

Hassildor sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers, looking at me speculatively. Then he poured himself another glass of wine – it _was_ wine this time. "I suppose I could give you gold…but let me give you an alternative," he set the decanter down and looked at me, sizing me up.

I was sure I knew what the question was, and the answer was 'no'.

"Given my condition, I am in a position to offer you something relatively unique. If you wish, I shall induct you into the ranks of the immortal – to make you a vampire. It will be…slightly painful, but far easier on you than...other methods."

I smiled coldly here: yes, I know what it's like to fight a vampire. And let me tell you, it's not a walk in the park. "I appreciate the offer, Your Grace," I said diplomatically, "But I have no desire to join the undead. I hope you understand…though I appreciate the offer, nonetheless."

And no offense, but I don't know you well enough to let you drool all over my neck, or anything like that. I won't even let Vicente do it. As I say, I like having a pulse – and I suspect the condition would limit my effectiveness as an assassin. And those things ineffective tend to fall by the wayside. Vicente has administrative duties…I? No, my career is just getting started, as far as I'm concerned.

The Count smiled and inclined his head. "As you wish," and he did not press the issue. I was glad he changed the topic to the more _de rigueur_ 'how have you enjoyed your stay in Skingrad'.

After breakfast I happily packed my things, and was escorted to the castle gate by Hal-Liurz, who pressed a purse into my hand with the explanation 'from His Grace'. I was also given a horse, which would take me to Cheydinhal – and would eventually be sent back to Skingrad.

It was, apparently, an in-place arrangement. I understood why the Count didn't send a carriage, though Hal-Liurz's tone indicated she did not.

It was too obvious.

The horse's name was Albara, and a fine mount at that. According to Hal-Liurz as I mounted up, the horse could make it to wherever I was bound –she didn't know, apparently – with me asleep on his back.

I assumed the Count had ordered the horse, with regards to its destination, personally.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Also, it was a very popular consensus that in-game the Wrath of Sithis was kind of pathetic. Therefore, since this is a novelization and the PC needn't be able to defeat the Wrath, assume it's a very major bogeyman, and it's reputation is well-deserved.

--

Chapter Thirty: A Personal Attack

--

Albara and I made good progress up until the junction of the Blue Road that would lead me to Cheydinhal, and the Red Ring Road that encircled the Imperial Isle. The day was gray, overcast and threatening rain. I was hoping that Albara could get us to Cheydinhal before the storm hit, though I wasn't worried. I don't mind the rain, as long as it's not driving into my eyes.

We were passing north of the Imperial City, nearing the turnoff that would take us to Cheydinhal, when Albara suddenly stopped, stock-still, smelling the air. His sides began to heave and he began to prance on the spot, trying to run this way and that. "Whoa…hey," I gripped the reins tighter and pressed his sides firmly with my knees, trying to quiet him, but the horse continued to work himself into a panic. The wind picked up a bit and I looked around – the instant it had picked up, a smell had come across to me…it was only a hint, and mingled with the promise of rain.

It was…familiar…something I had smelled in Oblivion? Or before…?

I looked around for the smell and yelped s something hit my unprotected arm.

I wasn't wearing my armor – I was dressed like a travelling mage – and when I looked down, I saw blood blossoming from a deep puncture near my wrist, welling up around what looked like a dart. And the wound was burning…my whole arm was burning, and full of shooting pain, from palm to elbow within moments.

Albara suddenly panicked fully and took off at a run, flat out, towards Cheydinhal, and the smell of whatever it was stronger in broth our nostrils…nauseating…something I should recognize…wafted with us. The horse's nostrils were flared and I realized that I had bigger problems than a runaway horse, and a dart in my arm –which I pulled out with no small amount of pain.

It was poison I already knew, and a bad one, because within minutes my sense began to fuzz and shift oddly. The smell had disappeared behind me, but unless I did something soon, I was going to drop dead…I concentrated, hard, and tried to slow the poison via magicka, but I don't think I was very successful.

A cold sensation was creeping up my arm, starting in my fingers, bringing new pain in and of itself…then nothing…like dipping my hand into ice-cold water: it would burn for a moment, and then go numb, and the pain would move up as the limb was further sunk into the icy embrace.

Albara continued to pound along the road, his hooves sending up clods of earth as I fought not to jostle too hard in the saddle. The less I move, the less I panic, the slower I can keep my heart rate, the slower the poison will run through my system.

I can't feel my right arm, from wrist to elbow.

--S--

My lips are going numb...though if this is just fear or the poison, I'm not sure…this isn't going to be good. It's still quite a ride to Cheydinhal…

--S--

I don't know how close I was to Cheydinhal when Albara veered off the main road and slowed to a trot, then to a walk. I was doomed and I knew it. And so close to home…I was sure the city couldn't be _that_ far away. But by now I was in real pain, and the wound on my forearm was red and swelling, and the edges of the wound had turned an unpleasant green. My lips were totally numb and – believe it or not – the tips of my ears. My feet and hands were totally numb, and that was why I was not really steering Albara...

This toxin is going to affect my extremities first, then the rest of me. I was slouching in the saddle, hanging forward against Albara's neck and shoulder.

Finally Albara stopped and I feebly fell out off, slipped out of the saddle and landed in the tall, fragrant grass, stunned further by the impact. All I could see were the trees waving above me, sending shadows across my face, gray clouds behind them, the air heavy and getting very warm indeed.

I'm going to die…here…like this…aren't I?

--S--

I could have been there for hours, days, or only minutes. Or maybe even some time in between. I didn't exactly come to. My eyes wouldn't open, and my head felt so fuzzed. I had the impression that someone was talking to me, I felt very clearly fingers on my uninjured wrist, checking for a pulse. I wanted to opened my eyes and prove I was alive…but it wasn't happening. The poison as too far into my system.

A moment later, however, I was scooped up, incredibly effortlessly, as if I were a doll, a broken doll. After a very severely disorienting chain of movements – which were, I suppose gentler than they felt to me - I realized that I and my now-rescuer were on a horse – I could tell by the gait...except the gait was so smooth that I didn't realize where I was for several minutes, or hours – my head wasn't keeping track of time well.

I was leaning against my rescuer, in front of him in the saddle, head lolling.

But I could feel the poison beating in my veins, and was felt both cold and hot at the same time, and not in a good way. I began to convulse slightly.

I tried to focus, to keep my semi-awareness going. Worst comes to worst, they'll drop me off at the chapel of Arkay and the priests will patch me up, if they can. I'll come to, properly and get out of there – the Chapel is very close to the Sanctuary. If this was my assassin…well, he - and yes, it's very obvious that this is a he – smells too good. Or rather, he conspicuously lacks that funny smell present at the attack.

I know what this smell is…its sandalwood...like Tel's comb…or my jewelry box…familiar…and expensive stuff…who do I know that uses sandalwood …?

Because I could _swear_ that I've smelled this particular mix of human and soap before…somewhere…just a passing whisper of it.

I couldn't shift but my head lolled to one side, and then was jostled gently so my head simply craned forward.

Well, at least I won't be six ways of stiff if…no, _when_ I properly wake up… the hand that had been on my shoulder to keep me balanced moved to hold me in place, draped across my collarbones, which nudged my head back into a more comfortable position.

--S--

I have to think…have I passed out again? It could have been seconds…it could have been longer…the temperature's changed.

It's been longer.

Think.

I'm on a horse, I'm big rescued…why aren't we moving faster…unless…_eew_! I've been kidnapped by a necrophiliac or a necromancer! Oh _gross_…

And yet… I'm not so sure…

Wait…what'd you say? I didn't quite catch that…

…I'm so dizzy…

--S--

Voices – I'm hearing voices but the words don't make sense. The tones though…someone's asking a question. And I feel the rumble of speech through my back…calm tones, though a little tight, annoyance restrained. I'm slipping again…

…I think…I'm going to die…

--S--

Oh…I hurt so badly I wasn't sure I was alive. I _could_ be in hell… but no. No I can hear familiar voices…unless we're _all_ dead, and that just doesn't make sense.

I couldn't get my eyes to open, so I tried to open my ears…and guess what? It _worked_.

"…the Night Mother truly watches over her daughters," Ocheeva was saying, her tone full of relief. "I'm amazed she got so far before she collapsed. If you hadn't found her, I'd be willing to bet we'd have lost another family member. We've lost enough as it is…"

There was a heavy sigh and the shift of a chair. "I don't like it, Ocheeva," my heart skipped a beat. I _would_ be found poisoned and unconscious by the boss-man – it had to be Lucien, which explained the sandalwood. Tasteful, classy, expensive…there _are_ perks to being a Speaker, I suppose.

I wondered why I hadn't really noticed before…no, I already know. Because it makes _sense_. And I didn't feel the need to question something that already made sense.

As far as embarrassing ways to be found: 'defenseless and poisoned' is not exactly a light I like myself seen in. I wonder, is he ever going to let me live this down?

Can they _demote_ me?

"Vicente's done what he can, he says the poison is rare. Highly unusual – you can't get half the ingredients here – you have to go to Morrowind for them," Lucien said quietly.

Ocheeva sighed, and I could see her in my mind's eye, massaging her brow ridges, the way a human would the bridge of her nose. "My question is…where was she coming from, and why?" Ocheeva asked. "I've got a contract with her name on it, but…"

"She was running an errand for me," Vicente said, sounding very tired, and strained. "A favor…and ill-chosen, it seems."

"Will she be permanently damaged?" Lucien asked.

Oh yeah, make me sound like a pretty little piece of property…dammit. Though, despite my annoyance, I had to admit, it was good to know he'd asked. I mean – I didn't want to be 'permanently damaged' either. Things were just getting interesting.

"I don't think so. She proved quite resilient to the effects – though no more so than most. I think she was simply determined – you know how she gets on a job…well, no, I don't suppose you really do," he corrected himself thoughtfully, but not insultingly. But I could hear the vampire smiling.

Vicente sees my professional face far more often than Lucien – he _knows_ I'm damnably determined. He's seen me at it.

Lucien simply _thinks_ I'm damnably astute.

I tried to wake up, and force my eyes open, but again, nothing, I couldn't even hear the trio shuffling around anymore, and then my ears cleared again.

"Why Sari, though?" Ocheeva asked. "Or…does it simply not matter?"

"Oh, I think it matters very much," Lucien said dryly, and I could envision the sort of dark, penetrating scowl he'd be wearing.

So do I – but I don't think our assassin knows how much. Because of all here, Lucien, Vicente and I are in on the secret – well, me less than the others, but still. It's no secret I've been doing excellent work. Eliminator already. And I've not been here for six months yet.

"I doubt that she was a target of convenience. Were you?" Lucien asked.

I don't think he realized I was awake. Or close to awake.

"No…" he answered his own question, and fell silent.

"She…is awake," Vicente said a moment later, and I wondered how he knew – then again, he can hear heartbeats. So how can he pick out _mine_ from the other two in the room? I'll have to ask one of these days.

"Is she?" Lucien asked.

"Or close to," Vicente must have walked over, because a moment later I could feel that he'd stretched his hand across my brow, thumb and forefinger resting on my temples, cool to the touch, though not clammy or unpleasant. I could feel the calluses on his right hand, from year after year of blade and bow. "Sarielle – answer if you can."

I tried, really tried, and managed a gurgle. My lips still felt numb, and fat. Like they'd gotten caught in something. It was very irritating…but at least I felt like I _had_ lips.

"Residual paralysis…you're a lucky young lady," he sighed and I could envision him shaking his head. "It will wear off."

--S--

It was several hours before Vicente's promise of my being able to move around again came true, though I was still lacking a lot of feeling in my limbs, particularly the arm that had taken the dart, and – oddly enough – my _lips_. I felt leaden, and not really up to being interrogated –for as soon as I was able to answer with some coherence I was sat down in a chair across from Lucien and Ocheeva, with Vicente standing behind my chair, and the grilling began.

I wasn't much help – I'd been hit from a distance and had never seen the attacker. I was sure once my arm stopped feeling numb it would start to hurt, and bad. I was bandaged wrist to elbow on the right side, and there were dots of blood showing through the thick cotton padding beneath the bandage, indicating the wound was still seeping.

"What else do you remember?" Lucien asked for the eightieth time.

"I don't…"

"_Anything_, Sarielle," Lucien pressed, calm and collected but not bullying.

It was upsetting because I _wanted_ to be able to tell him something. "I don't _know_," I growled, and looked up to scowl, to find Lucien was not wearing what I would call an 'interrogator's face' – which I'm sure would be enough to make you want to drop all but the most heated arguments.

I sank back in my chair – he looked concerned, but not panicky, determined but not insensitive in his determination. "I told you I…" I stopped, remembering the smell of sandalwood, safe and warm…and the contrast of that nauseating, unpleasant waft just before the attack. "Wait…wait, there was a smell…before the horse bolted…" I said slowly, forcing my mind back through the haze of memory and poison.

"What was it?" Lucien asked calmly. "Think hard, Sarielle," this was gentler, like trying to pry a kitten out of a tree.

I closed my eyes. "I should _know_…it was…rotting…_death_…old death..." I managed to articulate, to isolate the smell.

"Any assassin could smell that way," Ocheeva sighed.

"No, not like this," I said with certainty, opening my eyes. "No, this wasn't the smell of a clean kill…this was a corpse-smell…putrid, even…I smelled it before, in Oblivion…it was…nauseating….You don't _get_ that unless…unless you're in really close contact with corpses. Or, I believe you'd have to be…it was like a _part_ of this…this hunter. That was probably what spooked the horse," I ran a hand over my hair. "Do you want me to go look for this bastard?" I hadn't meant to say it – but I think that the comment did more to reassure Ocheeva and Vicente that I was really all right than anything else I could have said. "I'll ask him, if you like."

"No – no, this is a problem a little bigger than I think you appreciate," Lucien said and looked at Ocheeva, then back at me. "I'm suspending your activities. Stay in the Sanctuary until further notice. Ocheeva –reassign her contracts."

"_What_? You're _grounding_ me?" I looked aghast. Need I remind him that I'm _not_ a little kid…

"Yes, in effect," Lucien stood up. "Sarielle, I want you to think _very_ hard about it," total seriousness – no games, nothing. This was him being tough with a subordinate. The 'for your own good' argument.

I sighed and sat back. Deep down I can't argue with the logic – it'll take me a couple days at least to get back to normal, I suppose. It is troubling, that I was targeted. The only person I know whom I've upset is Banus Alor. "Okay," I sighed. Still, I got the impression that Lucien understood how much of a problem it was for me to be restricted: I'm used to wandering off, or around on my own – I get antsy and that's not good for the furniture. I kicked the floor with my heel, feeling sullen. "Am I dismissed?" I asked, looking up.

"Yes, of course," Ocheeva rose and walked me to the common room.

From there I went to the barracks and sprawled on my bunk, trying to flex the fingers of my right hand. Nothing – not so much as a twitch. But it still felt warm – it was still a healthy arm…aside from being useless at the moment. I just couldn't feel it.

The wound under the bandages was ugly, I was sure. I hadn't seen it, but the spots of blood that penetrated the cloth spoke loudly - and the dart hadn't exactly been tiny. Lying on my bed, curled up and waiting for sleep I considered.

I considered how tired I was, even though I'd done nothing but sleep on and off…I don't even know for how long. My sense of the passage of time was totally destroyed.

Someone had tried to kill me. Something in the direction of annoyance settled in my stomach. This assassin of assassins had better hope he stays hidden, or he's going to get his face rearranged.

Then Lucien can have him: for questioning, you understand.

I smiled thinly: I'm not much for torture, but I suspect our _dear_ Speaker knows what he's doing when it comes to getting answers from people who don't want to talk. After all, we know he can be charming…but what's the other side of the spectrum like? It's a little scary...and a highly intriguing thought.

I got up and staggered to Vicente's office and knocked loudly with my good arm.

"Enter," he said, and was looking expectant when I managed to get the door open. "Ah, pardon me for not assisting you," he said and stood up.

I waved. "It's okay – I can still do stuff…" it's just clumsy, doing it one-handed.

"I thought you would be resting."

"I have questions," I said bluntly.

"Ah, the keen razor of the mind turns the situation on the lathe – and what target is this razor after, may I ask?"

"Do you _need_ to ask?" I arched my eyebrows. "But well phrased, nonetheless."

Vicente inclined his head and I flopped into the second chair. "So, this is about your encounter. I don't suppose I could divert you, tell you to think about it later, and rest now?" Vicente asked.

"No. I _still_ can't feel my arm, and I'm worried."

"You can't feel your arm because it's still too soon."

I was not to be diverted today. "The poison used…it was strong, almost virulent. Why didn't it kill me before I got back to Cheydinhal? I was under the impression my attempts to magically stop it were not working."

"Ah, that is a stroke of luck on your part. You see, the poison is indeed fast acting, but when it spreads, it grows…less deadly. Diffuses. Had the shot impacted, say, near your heart, in your face or around the neck, even in the stomach area, you would probably have been dead – or close enough to it –when Lucien found you. As such, it struck you only in the arm – the poison diffused, and natural resilience, the strength of the young and mortal, came to your aid…and possibly your own attempts to slow the poison. Also, my talents, in reversing such poisons. Lucien is quite the alchemist, but I say with all due modesty that he has not had nearly as long to practice, to see, as I have," Vicente smiled.

"Well, aren't we lucky, then?" I grinned tiredly.

"_You_ are very lucky. Lucky your horse bolted – which he must have done, else your assassin would have finished you off. Hopefully in short order."

Don't misunderstand that comment – it's a kind thing to say. Better I get killed quickly than slowly. And I quite agree.

"I've seen this poison before – it is comprised of many ingredients that are found only in Morrowind – and bloodgrass extract, used to keep the blood from clotting around the wound. You'll bleed like that," he motioned to my arm, "for several days, until the poison's traces wear off. You will need to change the bandages, but have someone help you. I have, brewing, a salve I want you to use, it will help," but he didn't expound on what 'help' entailed, and I wasn't going to ask him. "Fortunately, our assassin was using darts, instead of arrows, as would be more proper for this sort of poison. It means he doesn't know how to use it effectively. To his cost."

"So…is our killer a Dunmer?" then I scowled.

Vicente bypassed my question, making me suspect more than ever that he had suspicions, but no proof, and until he had proof, he was not going to say much. "I told Lucien I did not believe you were a target of opportunity, and from a certain point of view, that is very true," Vicente's tone was not quite as calm as he could have made it sound.

"I don't understand," Vicente is one of the few people I will admit that to.

"I would not call this a random attack. But it was sloppy, evidently semi-well planned and sloppily executed. The only way for you to have smelled what you defined as 'putrid death' would be for him to have been upwind of you – his scent blowing towards you. And any assassin, aware of such a smell, would never attack from upwind unless _he couldn't get to a better location._ What worries me is how he knew of my errand for you…"

"Or perhaps he didn't, and was waiting for me to come _back_, knowing I had simply been gone. It makes sense, I'm the rookie around here. I should have been an easier target than, say, you or Ocheeva. Neither of you hardly ever goes out of the city, M'raaj Dar, for all his personality flaws, would have known the killer was there, scented him out long before I did. Gorgon would have taken three or four darts to immobilize being so much larger…" I shook my head. "Do I sound paranoid?"

I had a sudden, terrible thought and my eyes snapped to Vicente's. I had been promoted rather quickly, was rising through the ranks...accepted as an excellent assassin…the one who infiltrated the Imperial Prison without being seen, killed her mark, and vanished just as stealthily…what if Lucien and Vicente…were using me as _bait.._

"No, not paranoid," Vicente corrected quickly, "cautious, and it behooves you to be so, at this juncture…what is it?" his eyes darted across my face.

I bit my lip, and then confessed the concern.

Vicente relaxed. Evidently this was not as bad as what he'd been expecting. "No, Sarielle. Never. I would not serve up a Family member as bait, and neither would Lucien." Burt he didn't sound hurt at the mistrust, merely surprised that I had thought of this problem.

I nodded and took his word. I glanced at Vicente. He wasn't telling me something. "Vee? Do you have something else you'd like to add?" I asked gently.

Vicente's eyes flickered to my face, and I arched my eyebrows. Vicente smiled, but it was the rueful smile given to one who had become a little too observant for her own good.

Amazing what you can do when you're poisoned.

"There has been,…a lot of suspicion that the killer is from this Sanctuary – now," he held up a hand as my chair landed with a thunk on all fours.

I knew that our Traitor had a problem with Cheydinhal, with Lucien, even…that we were taking the blame…but to be _from _Cheydinhal in the first? I mean, really _from _here…discrediting their own Sanctuary?!

"I do not want to cast suspicion on your Sanctuary-mates. I do not believe that any of them would have attacked you. No," he added firmly, "not even M'raaj Dar. No one currently in residence here would do such a thing, of that I am certain. It is of those who have left our Sanctuary, and gone to others I cannot speak for…"

I frowned. A nasty, creeping sensation came over me. "Vee?" I asked tentatively.

"Hmm," Not exactly a question. He was scowling into nothing.

"Tell me about…about the Black Hand." My suspicion had suddenly been this: the poison would have rendered me dead or dying by the time Lucien found me. What if...what if that was the idea. That I wasn't the target, so much as the means of attacking the Speaker – because face it, I'm not much by comparison. And it's very obvious that Lucien loves the Family – so much as he can, being departed from our midst so often by necessity. I've never doubted this..except one very minor worry, not so many minutes ago.

I remembered how I had felt, knowing that the Family in Kvatch was dead… Remembered wondering how I would feel if any of the Family here turned up dead…What better way to attack a person, a group of people, than to whittle them down?

But what about the Wrath of Sithis –wasn't that supposed to kick in when you killed a fellow Brother or Sister? This was what had made me ask the question. It was a deeply disturbing question, and I had to be very careful how I approached it, or I might find myself in well over my head.

"You know what needs to be known," Vicente answered without thinking.

"Yeah but…you're right, I asked the wrong question," I considered. If I phrase this wrong, I'm going to get interference from Vicente. If I phrase it right, he'll probably send me off. But I'll know I hit a nerve. "But…how does Lucien _stand_…with the rest of the Black Hand, I mean."

What I wanted to know, what I _really _wanted to know, was did he play well with others or not. I suspected…not…and grinned slightly. But it would make sense: politics and assassins could be a recipe for disaster, if you get the wrong sort of both.

Vicente sighed and closed his eyes. "What a monster I have trained," he sighed. "If the Black Hand is a hand, Lucien is the middle finger," Vicente displayed the hand gesture idly and I snickered. Yeah, that's Lucien all right…I believe I've voiced a similar opinion. "The Hand is currently…balanced. More or less. Lucien has at least one other Speaker in his corner, if you will…there are two who oppose him, and one who plays at neutrality."

I frowned. "But…neutrality is a copout."

"Expound," Vicente said as if we were just having one of our evening post-supper discussions.

"Well, neutrality is a copout…because it's so easy to manipulate – that attitude of 'don't get involved' or worse, trying to maintain true neutrality makes you very easy to manipulate, by the first person or party without the scruples _about_ manipulating neutrality."

"Very good," Vicente nodded.

"Which means that the Hand is _not_ tipped in Lucien's favor, and he is not exactly popular," I concluded

Vicente sighed. "You are a member of his Sanctuary. You know him both as your Speaker, and as your Brother," Vicente said. "I know him as my pupil, Speaker, and Brother – and I know his loyalty to the Brotherhood, to the Family, is not to be questioned, but he is no zealot."

Yeah –I picked up on that.

"Lucien is intelligent, clever, and cunning. You know firsthand, that he doesn't mind using these skills, and is equally willing to employ less subtle means. And for those who are less clever, less intelligent…who are not close to him, as the Family here in Cheydinhal is considered to be, he is very dangerous."

We exchanged looks and Vicente grinned, relating his verbal pitfall and I snickered, taking advantage of it. "_I'm_ dangerous, Vee, and I'm still a rookie." I consider myself a rookie – I've been part of the Family less than six months.

"Indeed, though you place too much weight on the word 'rookie'. Lucien has his agendas, as do they all, and I am not privy to all of them," Vicente didn't sound worried by this, more like, pleased that his pupil had finally started to think on his own. "And it is his subtlety that truly worries the Hand. They mistrust, they fear the unswerving loyalty of his Sanctuary to their Speaker. Those among the Hand who _are_ zealots, would see this as a problem. Have you spotted why?"

"Such devotion behooves the lesser members of the Brotherhood to be given to the Night Mother herself – not a Speaker. But don't we serve her, vicariously, by serving our Speaker without question, with precision, and in so doing uphold the tenants and our infrastructure?" I asked, after taking a moment to order my logic and find a pleasant way to word it.

Vicente smiled, sowing all his teeth – and I mean _all_ of them. "Excellently reasoned, and nicely phrased. Yes, and while we all pledge ourselves to the Night Mother, Lucien is her Speaker, and he follows the Listener who has our sweet Mother whispering in his ear…" Vicente made a face.

I already know that neither Lucien nor Vicente likes the Listener. In fact I get the feeling that they think he's rather useless.

"Who is the…"

The door opened and Lucien stepped in then stopped, seeing Vicente and I conversing.

"Come in," Vicente said blandly.

"How's your arm?" Lucien asked, though I was sure that he was trying to get me out of the office, without appearing to do so. There was an aura around him, like violence contained, and it was making my neck prickle.

"Still numb, but at least I still _have_ an arm…thanks to you both…ah…I'll…I'll see you later, Vee – thanks for the conversation," I withdrew, closing the door behind me. I didn't bother listening at the door –first it's rude to eavesdrop, second, I had enough to chew on as it was.

I have never been much for politics – mostly because politics are most prevalent in Imperial City, and Anvil politics usually are of a more frivolous sort. This, however, was intriguing, worrisome, and puzzling. I had wanted to ask who the Listener was, who the other Speakers were, but obviously, Lucien and whatever he wanted to discuss with his old mentor had interrupted.

I returned to the barracks and sat down on my bed, pulling my boots off and then flopping back to stare at the ceiling, shadow s flickering in the torchlight. "Lights," I said clearly and the torches dimmed.

Magicka: makes the world go round.


	32. Chapter 32

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Hey! Finally – all the stuff that's on DA, is here! Now i can get back to writing.

--

Chapter Thirty-One: Chess

--

Despite the fact that my arm was healing very slowly, I found that I had to work very hard not to resent Lucien's mandate that I be kept in the Sanctuary. That safe was where I needed to be, and safe was where I should be kept. I'm amazed he didn't just put me in a closet and throw away the key. I never expected that in an assassins' guild – I figured they'd let you decide when you were fit, and ready to go…

Though I also have to admit, I see his point.

I know myself well enough to know I would push my own limits, out of sheer boredom and frustration…and I was suffering from both right now.

To be totally honest, I think he was also simply a convenient target for my ill feeling – something I could complain to Schemer about when no one else was around. Have you ever tried to slice ingredients one-handed? Or spar one handed?

And on top of that, four days later, I was still numb to the elbow and still found myself oddly tired and lethargic.

No, my ring indicated that they were not slipping me something to keep me quiet. The thought did cross my mind, though. I think what bothered me most was being virtually useless – watching the others _doing_ things…and I was left behind. And I was afraid of losing my edge.

I thought it had been bad when it rained for several days at a time...this was worse. Infinitely worse, and it was taking more and more effort to keep myself from appearing cranky and morose. I'm not sure I was succeeding as well as I would have liked, but at least I wasn't snapping at people out of hand.

And as if that wasn't bad enough – Oblivion Gates were cropping up all over the place. Fliers had popped up all over the place – Tel had brought one back for me to see – warning the citizenry not to approach the Gates, as well as a couple other things. The Fighters' Guild wasn't listening. I could only assume that Ailirah had passed along the knowledge of how to close them – I certainly had.

I was sitting up late on the evening in question, feeling sulky and petting Schemer. He kept trying to lay his head on my injured arm, as if it were a pillow, or as if he could protect the injury. He's really such a sweet rat –and was very good about listening to me mope – which was better than actually bitching, which was what I really wanted to do. But it would not help me or anyone else and would also be in poor taste, I thought. Yes, it would be incredibly poor taste to bitch too hard when this was a 'for my own good' thing, even if I resented the hell out of it. Logically, I agreed: I was a soft target until my arm was better.

But really, I was _bored._ Pathetically so. It would be easier to take if I had something I could do – but I was sick of reading, and sick of not being able to do any of the things I enjoyed.

"Sarielle," Lucien said mildly as he climbed down the ladder.

I was sitting near the fireplace, my chair turned so I could watch the common room, and people going to whatever business they had. My sleep-wake schedule was all crazy, because I kept taking short naps ever four or five hours.

"Am I ungrounded?" I asked, sounding a little pathetic – but I had tried just about everything else. Being annoyed, being cheerfully hopeful, nothing worked. Lucien Lachance is proof against whining and just about everything else, I'm convinced of it.

"Can you move your fingers?" Lucien asked back, his tone carefully neutral. We had been doing this every time he came back to the Sanctuary. Part of me was testing his patience, to find out where it stopped, but so far, I didn't see any warning signs.

When Lucien gets annoyed he gets this funny expression that I can't really describe: but you'd know it if you saw it. And if you see it…drop whatever you're on about.

Like, immediately.

I sighed. "You're killing me boss," I sank back into my chair, and looked ruefully at my hand.

"No, I actually think I'm keeping you alive. You can't move them, can you?" he asked briskly.

I held up my injured arm again – the bandages were not as thick, the wound had closed up mostly. Vicente said I could take the bandages off tomorrow, and leave them off, so long as I left the wound itself alone. I had to work very hard, and concentrate very hard, but slowly my numb fingers curled, if clumsily, into a very loose fist, and then uncurled to hang halfheartedly open. I can't do anything with them, but I can move them. And I was glad. I had been working on and off to get to this point.

I was surprised, for when he saw my fingers move – even if they were very clumsy and stupid - Lucien let out a deep breath of relief and walked over and took my hand in his. "Can you feel that?" he asked pressing –hard I suppose – with his thumb into my palm. He was looking at my face when he did it and I wished I could have given him a different answer.

"No," I said with a sigh. "My fingers are still stupid," I was a little disarmed – I hadn't expected that kind of reaction.

Relief, I mean. I was used to having my hand poked and prodded by well-meaning Family members.

"Well, that's definitely progress," he nodded approvingly, "Tell me when your hand feels less stupid," he said, and set my hand back down on the arm of the chair.

There was a silent moment in which I sighed, my shoulders slumped and I twiddled with Schemer's ears. So close, and yet so far…I knew that this small ability to move my fingers was nowhere near what would sign my ticket to freedom. I shouldn't have bothered…I looked at my hand, lying on the arm of the overstuffed armchair. Schemer shifted in my lap and laid his chin on my hand, and chattered quietly.

"Do you play chess at all?" I looked up to see Lucien standing there, composed as ever.

"No," I answered a little despondently.

He _knows_ full well that I don't….at which thought I felt a little guilty. Like I said: I know that as an assassin with only one working arm, I'm pretty dead-useless. But still – it's very frustrating.

I sighed. I'm falling into bad habits. "No, I never learned," I answered, a little more politely. I never voiced any interest in learning.

Lucien nodded and walked off, then returned in a moment with a chessboard under his arm. "Time you learn," which is Lucien-speak for 'let me teach you'. He'll never actually _ask_…but he means well. I'm getting better at decoding Lucien–speak – he hasn't been as busy this week as he usually is, and had been home for dinner almost every night for this said week.

I sighed and shifted in my chair. "I'm not really in the mood," I motioned to my head with my free hand. Not so much mood, so much as mindset. My brain was turning to jelly, I could just feel it…well, hello, Sarielle. What do you think learning chess is for? It's a _thinking_ game. It'll whip that jelly-ooze back into brain-goo, like it's supposed to be.

Also, it's a game I can play with one hand, and stupid fingers. And Schemer in my lap.

Lucien gave me that charming smile that no doubt works very well on people who don't know what he does for a living (and probably some who do). I had to smile back, a little sympathetically: it won't work on me. "How do you know?" he asked, as he moved the table by my chair in front of me, and then brought himself a chair. The chairs aren't heavy, but they _are_ a little cumbersome, and it was sort of funny to see Lucien manhandling this armchair, like any normal person.

Ah –the mighty Lucien Lachance. Give him a contract for a killing and he's one of the best. Give him an oversized armchair and he's like any other guy.

"Woman's intuition," I said immediately sizing the opportunity to do something I enjoyed: try and knock him off-balance with a flurry of words – a feat of mental acrobatics in and of itself. "But I suppose you don't have much to do with that…" I closed my eyes, as I saw Lucien arch his eyebrows at me. I kind blundered into that one. "Oh, have your own way..." by now he was grinning at me as if to say 'quit while you're ahead', "you're not wearing that damn bed sheet… if you say _one word_…" I raised what should have been a threatening finger, but in this case…I don't think it worked. Three blunders…._three_. In a row.

I am so pathetic, I should just turn in my knives and become a society girl again – no need for brains, there. "I give up," I raised my hands in an attitude of surrender.

Damn that smirk of his. I hate it when he doesn't even have to say anything to make me lose.

"Sarielle, don't forget who _orchestrated_ the game you are trying to play," and with that rather gentle if somewhat smug reminder, he produced board and pieces.

I could see the value of the game, to be quite honest. And to his credit, he didn't invoke my miserable mistakes of earlier – all of which, while innocent on my part, could be very easily twisted into something a lot more mature, and I didn't want to deal with that right now.

The problem is, Lucien is _used_ to thinking several steps ahead…I've had less experience and can't think as deeply, thoroughly as he's used to doing. It was here that I realized that this was more than just 'let me teach you a game, to occupy your time'.

This was…almost like an apology for putting me under house arrest. It would teach me the mindset needed to improve my verbal sparring – or at least, the logical half of verbal sparring, because it's more than just running your mouth off – to help me get ahead enough that my play of our game would improve.

Unbelievable – and here I'd thought he would never do something to even the playing field…unless he's truly gotten fond of our little bouts, and wants a bit more of a challenge. Either way, I was surprised, and rather pleased. It's so nice to be respected as an intelligent person.

When he finally called it quits, I had a headache the size of all Skingrad. "You shouldn't play with a headache," Lucien admonished, teasingly.

"Why should I give you the satisfaction of just quitting?" I asked, though my humor was somewhat restored by having something that required so much of my attention. I had known the basics of how the pieces moved, from watching Lucien and Vicente play – but I now knew some strategy, some mechanics, things that made the game so attractive to people who like to plan and plot. I could apply some of these principles to my work…

And honestly, I didn't think he'd just _let_ me quit without a half-decent attempt on my part.

"Indeed."

"Don't start with me," I got up and made a face. He looked back nonplussed, eyebrows raised attentively. "Thanks," I sighed and toyed with the end of my braid. "G'night," I said and turned to wander off to the barracks, ready to put my headache down and hoping it would be gone by tomorrow.

"Very pleasant dreams," Lucien said from where he sat.

I squeezed my eyes shut in a wince – I didn't need to turn around to see the smirk that would be plastered all over his face. I should have known he wouldn't let my previous blunders just lie forgotten…I hate you. Oh I freaking hate you…well, not really. I shouldn't say things I don't mean. "Hn," I grunted noncommittally. But I grinned a little anyway.

Three steps ahead. And now I know how he gets there. Let's see if I can't catch up…

--S--

Two days after this, I was in pain again, but I was, for once, glad of it.

My fingers finally had some dexterity, and every time I moved them they hurt, as if I'd left my fist clenched too long, or wrapped around something, and had only just let go – you know, that stiffness in the knuckles?

But, it was decisive progress. I could feel, I had better motor skills…I could honestly call it 'progress towards recovery'.

Ocheeva came and found me awhile after I reported to her that I could move my hand again, with good news. "I relayed to Lucien that you have dexterity, and feeling in your hand again. He has agreed to let you back into the field…on certain conditions."

"What?" I didn't care what – just let me out of this _hole_ in the ground!

Sunlight!

Freedom!

The conditions were mostly common sense –as if he thought I might forget common sense in the face of being allowed to be _outside_. Mostly, it was that I shouldn't overstretch myself, or push my limits. Avoid Oblivion Gates, if I had any mad desires to close them…things like that.

I had to chuckle at this – I learned my lesson about volunteering, I think. And also I think I'm worth more alive than dead.

"I also have a contract – it is fairly easy, and you should be able to complete it mostly one-handed, given the way you like to handle your contracts." Ocheeva said, smiling in Argonian fashion, which no longer unnerved me. I had seen it often enough that I could recognize emotions on her and Teinaava's faces without too much trouble.

My cup of happiness _overflowed_ and I could honestly say that I was proud to be a member of this particular Sanctuary, may our Speaker preside long over it. Needless to say, even M'raaj Dar was in my good graces today. "What is it?" I asked her, smiling genuinely.


	33. Chapter 33

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Lonely Wanderer

--

Ocheeva blinked at me for a moment then grinned slightly. "It will require some scouting on your part – here," we walked over to Ocheeva's office, which was not as comfortable as Vicente's, and doubled as a bedroom. Her actual sleeping quarters were sectioned off by a large painted screen that showed a representation of a swamp – I could only assume it had something to do with her homeland of Black Marsh. "Your target is an Altmer named Faelian. He lives somewhere in the Imperial City, and apparently fancies long walks. Unfortunately, that is all we know about him. We don't know which district he calls home, which establishments he frequents, or anything about his schedule – hence the scouting," Ocheeva waved a hand.

I shrugged. "That's not going to be too difficult. I can be _very_ charming when I need to be," I grinned.

So did Ocheeva. "Yes, I've heard," she chuckled. "There is one more thing – consider it requisite for this job."

"Which is?" I asked, with a shrug.

"You _must_ kill Faelian…discreetly. Not in a public place –somewhere isolated."

I arched my eyebrows. That makes sense- it's not like I specialize in shooting people from rooftops and vanishing with a maniacal laugh. That's Tel on a bad day.

"Do you know the name Adamus Phillida?" Ocheeva asked.

I grimaced. Adamus Phillida is assassin-enemy number one – he only outstrips the Morag Tong because he actually lives in Cyrodiil, instead of in Morrowind. He's vehemently opposed to the Family and has a nasty reputation. It's one reason we so rarely do work in the Imperial City – right under his nose.

I smiled – well, I've worked under his nose before. It just means I have to be a little careful. "I'm not worried about Phillida."

"Well, you should be," Ocheeva said firmly. "I would hate for you to get careless, and get caught."

I smiled. "I'll be careful," I said gracefully.

Ocheeva patted my shoulder. "I see you're glad to be back in the field. That's good."

"Glad doesn't half cover it, Ocheeva. I am _ecstatic_. I could hug Lucien – but he'd probably gut me for trying," I winked and disappeared out of her office and back to the barracks.

Schemer was lying on my bed, his tail twitching. "_Yes_!" I yelped to the empty room and spun around. Schemer, startled by my outburst, chattered angrily before he streaked out of the barracks.

Ladies and gentlemen – I am _back_!

--S--

I rented a horse to get to the Imperial City, and thoroughly enjoyed the ride. I had no idea where to find this unfortunate Faelian, and I had no idea where to look, or what method would be best, but I had a plan. First of all, my arm was in a sling – which was partly my cover, partly because I was still in pain, and needed that kind of reminder to not use my arm. I had basic ingredients and alchemical equipment in my saddlebags - I could set up my own workbench at whichever inn I decided to stay.

I wound up staying at the King and Queen Tavern –the same place I had seen Elrick for the last time. It made my stomach feel a little funny, as I entered my room there, and set up my workbench. Since Blanchard's death…nothing – unless you counted me. I half-hoped my assassin would come back to try and finish the job – I'd make a bloody present of his corpse to Lucien and Vicente - and I mean that. It's not just big talk – I would _do_ it.

I looked out the window over the Elven Gardens' main thoroughfare. The weather was sunny and bright, and hinted at spring moving towards summer – though it was still chilly at night.

Faelian's out there somewhere. And so is Phillida.

I changed out of my travelling clothes and into a simple dress, and undid my hair, then put it back up in a less severe style. It would be in my way, if I got into a fight, but then again, I didn't intend to get into any fights. That was not why I was here.

I had spoken to the others who were home before leaving – and it was Vicente who gave me a foothold in my plan of action. He had mentioned that the elves of the Imperial City were a notoriously tight-knit group – hence why I had taken a room at an inn in the Elven Gardens district – and that of all the 'mer there, surely one would know about Faelian. The only problem was, if I was seen asking about Faelian, I had better make sure there was no way for me to be connected to his death.

Which meant poison. And even then, I'd have to be careful.

But, scout first, plot later. Partly, this was an excuse to get out and walk in the sun –I was a little stiff from being in the saddle for so long.

--S--

I had never seen Adamus Phillida in person before – but within an hour or two of wandering around, I finally caught sight of him. He was a grizzled old Imperial, and I didn't think I'd like to have to fight him head-on. He wore heavy armor, and despite the fact that he was getting on in years, he was still hale and strong. Of course, I didn't exactly walk up to him and introduce myself –I simply made sure I knew what he looked like – could pick him out in a crowd.

I didn't want him sneaking up on me, so I felt it prudent to know what my enemy looked like – even if he wasn't my target today. Fortunately, he seemed to be very busy. That's good – hopefully he'll _stay_ nice and busy until I leave – not that I was worried. Hundreds of people visit the Imperial City every day –there was no reason why I should stand out more than any other girl.

All I have to do is keep my wits about me, and not panic if I get accosted by any of the guards.

Once I had Phillida identified, I went back to the real business at hand: finding Faelian. I had a very simple plan for this. There is one place that is better than any other for finding information – and for not arousing suspicion. And that place is a bar.

It was during this part of the mission that I realized that hanging around with men like Vicente and Lucien has soured me on the company of more…normal…guys. This realization struck me when I was chatting up a Bosmer who was already giving me interested looks – the man had nothing to say and all day to say it. Atop which, I realized three quarters of the way through our chat, that I was not even half-trying to be witty and clever – I was wasting my efforts.

But, I learned that Faelian had a sweetheart by name of Atraena, and she lived at the Tiber Septim Hotel, in the Talos Plaza district. After that, I turned on the intelligence and within a few minutes had scared off the 'mer, simply by being a little smarter than his tastes preferred in a woman. Not that that was hard - he wasn't looking for conversation, I don't think. Not really. And definitely not for the long run.

But, I had what I needed, and was very glad to leave the bar.

Atraena, of the Talos Plaza district…I opted to wait until the morrow before going out to find Atraena. It was getting dim, and I realized here that I was exhausted, and needed –more than anything - to get back to my room at the inn and get some sleep. My arm was aching like mad from palm to mid forearm and I wished I had been wearing my sling – which I had left at the inn, rather than show off that I was hurt. Long sleeves hid the injury just fine, even if I was a little over-warm.

--S--

I found Atraena without much difficulty. I made my way to the Tiber Septim Hotel after an early breakfast – which meant I was there just as people were beginning to clear off, after finishing their own. The proprietress was speaking consolingly to an Altmer, and I chanced close enough to hear their conversation.

"Oh, Atraena, dear, I am sorry…" for what, I didn't know but it was more than I needed.

"Excuse me," I said and touched Atraena's shoulder, on the pretense of needing to get to the counter. What no one saw was the charm spell that passed through my hand and into Atraena's shoulder.

"Oh…I'm sorry..." Atraena moved to the side and I ordered a glass of orange juice to keep up the pretense, and then smiled.

"You'll pardon my saying, but you look a little out of sorts. Man trouble?" I asked sympathetically.

Atraena gave a wry smile. "Yes, I suppose you could say that…" she looked me up and down, blinking a little as if to clear her eyes and I smiled.

"Yeah…I know about that, myself," I sighed and forced myself to come up with a scenario to present.

"You too?" Atraena smiled, apparently glad of sympathy. "May I…ask?" she asked.

"He's an ass half the time...and not quite prince charming the other half," that's for sure. I grunted, deciding on remembering being grounded by Lucien. "You?"

Atraena a smiled ruefully and seemed to jitter a few moments. I readied another charm spell, just in case I needed it. She sighed. "Well…I hardly know you but I…I just _feel_ I can trust you," Atraena turned and leaned on the counter, looking at her hands. "It's…oh!" her face flooded with color and I reached out and took her arm. She waved as if to say 'I'm all right' but continued to redden, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, my…here, come sit down!" I said, the perfect picture of concern. Anyone who didn't know better might have thought we were best friends. I picked out the small parlor in the main room and pulled Atraena over to it, and fished out a handkerchief. "Whatever is it?"

Atraena gave a huge sniff and then buried her face into her hands and my handkerchief. "Please, I...I don't mean to get emotional…"

"It's quite all right," I said reassuringly, patting her shoulder, imitating Tel in a mood to be helpful.

"…but... I feel I can trust you. I just don't know what to do about Faelian!" she sobbed a little harder.

_I_ can do something about Faelian. "What about him?"

"All he thinks about, all he cares about, is _skooma_!" Atraena's anguish took on shades of anger, and she reappeared from behind her hands and handkerchief. "He was a fine young man once. But…but he's lost _everything_. His looks, his money... his self-respect," this last seemed too much for Atraena, and I nodded sympathetically, and mouthed 'thank you' when Augusta, the proprietress, bought over a tray with two cups of tea on it and gave me a look that indicated she was glad I was of some assistance to poor Atraena.

"Skooma's a terrible thing," I said, and I actually believe this. I don't believe in skooma, though it does give me an idea about how to deal with Faelian in such a way that Phillida could run himself and his entire garrison ragged and never realize that it was murder.

"I-I've followed him a few times…just to see where he goes," Atraena hiccupped and took the teacup I handed her. It rattled ion its saucer until she employed both hands to hold it, but she didn't drink it. "He walks around the city looking for skooma, and then goes to Lorkmir's house for several hours…It's in the Elven Gardens District, you know…" she shook her head.

Thank you, Atraena.

"I love him so much…" Atraena said, looking at me with red-rimmed, watering eyes, "but…but...He's thrown _everything_ away…just so he can do his skooma…" I knew she meant herself – even if he was rumored to come to see her every so often. The man sounds like a bit of a drug himself – and Atraena his addict.

"I know," I said sympathetically. "I really do know…" and I shook my head. I stayed chatting with Atraena until the charm spell wore off, a good thirty minutes later – when I charm someone I need information from, I'm very heavy-handed. I can only do a spell like that once in an hour, or so, so it's not a really reliable method for long-term interrogations. But for the short-answer sessions…it works just fine.

--S--

I went back to the inn and considered, resting in the comfortable chair I managed to move to the window. My arm was bothering me again and I was feeling drowsy – doubly so sitting the sun like a contented cat.

So Faelian likes skooma. That brought me to my oh-so-brilliant scheme.

If I can get a hold of a bottle or two, I can taint it – poison it, so it would look like he had died of an overdose. But if he's using a friend's house, that friend may just have to go too – a little tacky, and little less precise than I like…but it would make the story a little more credible. Two skooma strung-out deadbeats turning up dead in the skooma den won't raise much suspicion in the direction of the Family.

I wound up cat-napping in my chair for an hour or so, and then got up.

Even if I still get tired more quickly than normal, I no longer need to sleep as long between stints of wakefulness. I looked at my alchemical stores and considered. Yes – yes, an overdose is just what the healer ordered. The hard part is finding the skooma…

But I may just have a source for that already. I just need to make sure Lorkmir isn't home when I come to call.

--S--

Lorkmir was home – but only in a manner of speaking. More precisely, he was dead in his own basement. And it looked like Faelian had been the one to kill him – unless there was something going on that I didn't know about. Well, that'll just play nicely – won't it? Skooma addict kills friend, dies of overdose. Poetic justice, and one more thing that the guards don't have to deal with.

All they need to worry about is cleanup.

As for me, I found plenty of skooma for my uses, lying on a table in living room. Now, I suspected that normal people might realize a skooma bottle had gotten up and walked off - but I was also banking on the fact that a skooma addict jonseing for his next fix wouldn't be in a position to ask those sorts of questions. I hid the bottle of skooma in my sling and slipped back to the King and Queen Tavern, and then hid the skooma between the mattress and the bed frame. No one ever looks there.

I turned to my workbench, which I had moved to be nearer to the window, so that light fell on the work surface. It had meant rearranging my favorite chair, but I felt the tradeoff was worth it. I considered hard before I began to check my ingredients – I only get one shot at this – otherwise I have to start all over, and if I look like a skooma supplier, I'll have the little fetcher following me around, trying to buy his next fix.

Damn I hate skooma.

I lit a magical fire under the retort and began to prepare the poison that would turn the skooma into Faelian's last fix. I feel a little sorry for Atraena…but believe me - I also feel like I'm doing her a favor. Maybe once Faelian has kicked off, she'll be able to find a decent guy.

Goodness knows I could do with a couple decent guys in my life…but like I said – the guys I hang out with have soured me on the 'normal' variety – normal guys just aren't as much…fun to be around. Aren't as interesting. Just sort of…bland.

And before you ask 'what about Gogron', what about him? He's not normal either – he's a not the smartest individual in the world, but he's still hilarious, and knows how to have fun. I wouldn't call Gogron normal.

--S--

I held up the bottle as Faelian stared at me in shock. He had no idea how I'd gotten in, only that I was a pretty Imperial holding... "I brought you a present," I smiled and held the small bottle delicately between two fingers. "You like this…don't you?" I asked and extended my arm. "It's yours…if you want it."

But only the first one's free.

I didn't care what he said afterwards. This would look like a very simple overdose – the poison's cues were subtle –you had to know what you were looking for.

Faelian didn't ask questions – he might have even thought I was a delusion brought on by missing a fix. He took the bottle of skooma with shaking hands and the next thing I knew, he had drunk it down – guzzled it sloppily. Well, drunk or smoked, it hardly mattered – the poison would work, just the same.

I watched, still smiling, but really feeling quite revolted.

Within minutes Faelian lay dead.

I got up and stepped over him then stepped out of the house, closing the back door after me. Not exactly clean...but it would _certainly_ not attract Phillida's attention.

Speaking of whom, I walked past him as I left the district, called out that 'we're right behind you, Mr. Phillida, sir!'.

In more ways than one, and more ways than he knows.

A lapse in professionalism, perhaps, but I had no problem when he stopped to accept the fangirl's compliments, in asking for pointless directions. He'd been more than happy to give them, to suck up the 'you're so great' spiel I came up with – even though it made me feel a little queasy.

Imperial pig.

--S--

Gogron laughed uproariously at this, and Tel smiled thinly. "You didn't…" she smiled disbelieving when I related the story to her, after coming back to Cheydinhal.

"I did," I said with a grin, taking a bite of the shepherd's pie that Tel had made for supper. "The man's scum…_that's_ been killing our bothers and sisters? Tch." I said scornfully. "This is good, Tel," I added on an aside.

"You're certain a your…dalliance…wasn't noticed?" I felt cold creep up my back as Lucien came in.

"I wouldn't call it a _dalliance_," I smiled. "No, he thought I was just a sweet little thing - a little lost fan of his, or something. First time in the big city, you know," I smiled thinly. "Always happy to help, the city guard. _Particularly_ if you've a comely face and…well. You can imagine," I sipped my milk and smiled thinly and humorlessly.

"Indeed," Tel said dryly, glancing over at Antoinetta.

"You should have killed him," Antoinetta said.

"Antoinetta, this is Adamus Phillida we're talking about, not some normal lackey," Tel said gently.

"I didn't have orders," I said with a sigh. "My orders were to keep him from getting suspicious. Trying to kill him would have aroused suspicion."

"You _could_ have. You should have," she repeated. Antoinetta doesn't like the guards of any city. And she particularly dislikes Phillida because he's in charge.

"Yes, and then the boss-man here would cut off my head and put it on a pike…or something suitably sinister. Probably more lingering…kill Phillida? Without orders in a crowded street? I'm a little cracked but I'm not _that_ crazy," And not with one still-wimpy arm, even if it's feeling quite a bit better, but I was not about to admit to that.

"Peace," Lucien intoned. "Your restraint is admirable," he said, leaning over so his breath tickled my ear and raising gooseflesh up and down my spine.

That's some kind of sinister…I don't think he's being sinister on purpose, either.

"Thank you," I answered with dignity. "_Is _there any particular reason you want to try and make me squirm, or have you just run out of clever arguments?" Because it's not working.

He chuckled and straightened up, carrying a plate, and moving to join Tel and Antoinetta, who scooted to make room for him. "Yes, and no. For the moment."

Can this guy read minds? Because he answered three questions when I only voiced two.

I grinned though – if he means to make me squirm it's not working. It's so not working.


	34. Chapter 34

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

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Chapter Thirty-Three: Anvil

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Work had slowed to a trickle again, and Antoinetta managed to convince me that we should take a trip to visit the Sanctuary in Anvil. I knew the reason she wanted to go – she was scraping up the courage to actually say more than two words to her crush. I also knew that because this was the reason for the trip, she wouldn't go without me. Moral support, you know?

So in the end I agreed, and we made plans to go. I was not looking forward to the trip, but I was curious: I had yet to see another Sanctuary, aside from Cheydinhal. Well, I suppose I saw a bit of the one in Kvatch – but that doesn't really count, considering it was collapsed. Speaking of Kvatch…we never heard anything from the Family there. They're either all dead or – Vicente suspects –some might have actually simply panicked and run. Totally lost their heads.

Antoinetta also doesn't ride –when she needs to get somewhere, she goes by foot.

I refused point blank to walk all the way to Anvil, so we wound up renting a horse at the stable outside Cheydinhal, and rode double all the way to Anvil. It took us a couple of days, and I actually enjoyed the trip – though I got a cold, squirming feeling in my stomach when we passed the turnoff for Kvatch.

Bad memories.

But Antoinetta likes to sing, and so do I, so we spent a lot of the trip warbling songs for our own amusement. But the time we got to Anvil, Antoinetta could steer the horse, so long as I pretended to keep an eye on things. She has no confidence when it comes to horses – well, I have no confidence when it comes to lots of things – I just don't let on. Or I try not to.

Seeing Anvil again was like getting a kick in the stomach. Seeing its familiar rooftops and walls, and the harbor again made me want to turn the horse around and leave again, and reminded me of what Vicente had said before I had left.

"_You do know that once you leave, you can never return home?_"

Well, I had told him I wasn't going home – this, Cheydinhal, was home. There was nothing for me in Anvil, except that Antoinetta wanted company. It wasn't until I saw the place again that I realized this was a bad idea.

--S--

I knew that I was going to attract trouble in Anvil, if I was seen by my parents, their household, or the local mages' guild. And wouldn't you know it? I hadn't taken ten steps into the city when I saw one of my old colleagues. Apparently he'd been promoted.

He got one good look at me and vanished from sight. "Damn," I grunted, drawing my hood further forward, despite the fact that it was a sunny coastal day.

"What?" Antoinetta asked.

"I think I'm in trouble – I just saw an old acquaintance…"

"So?" Antoinetta blinked.

"Because that's an acquaintance with a fight to pick and a chip on his shoulder," I grunted. "Come on – let's hurry up and get to the Sanctuary, I don't want to get ambushed by half the mages' guild…"

"You said that…" Antoinetta frowned as she picked up the pace.

"I know what I said," I said as quietly. "But that doesn't mean _they_ see it that way…"

Antoinetta giggled. "You really think they'd mess with you in broad daylight?"

"Oh yeah…they're knuckleheads," I shook my head and Antoinetta picked up our pace again.

--S--

My prophecy of trouble became reality a lot sooner than I would have liked –for just outside them Mages' Guildhall, which we had to pass to get to the Sanctuary, there were a half-dozen of my former colleagues, and they were not smiling.

Unsurprising –they notoriously a lacked a sense of humor. "Well, good afternoon," Deiara smiled.

"It was," I answered blandly. "I see you've rolled out the welcome wagon," I motioned to the other associates. "What's the matter - recommendations getting hard to come by?" yeah – I was making it worse. Of course, I also had something Deiara does not – brains.

"Do you pick a fight with everyone you meet?" Antoinetta asked with a smirk.

"Just about," I answered mildly. "So – are you gonna block the street or can I be on my way?"

"Your way? It's only technicality you're not rotting in prison somewhere, Sari." Deiara responded coldly.

"Don't call me Sari, Deiara – I don't like you that much," I said idly.

Deiara took an aggressive step forward and magicka crackled in the air. I'm no match for a half-dozen associates with violence on their minds – but I didn't get to be who I am today by being stupid.

It was so easy. While Antoinetta trembled to my left – with readiness to kill the nearest caster, I did the most natural thing in the world for a woman to do when she gets into trouble. I screamed for the local guards, a blood-curdling scream of the helpless.

The problem was – once half the Mages' guild showed up with half the guards who had been walking their beats, Antoinetta and I got separated – Antoinetta because she was avoiding getting stepped on as 'help' rushed in. I hoped she'd run to the Sanctuary and wait for me.

The Mages' Guild members, the older ones, anyway, weren't eager to have a nasty confrontation on their hands, a just as they weren't eager to see me. Though when I explained I was not back to rejoin guild, they relaxed a little, and took to disciplining their overenthusiastic pupils.

I, however, was taken back to my parents' house. An inconvenience in and of itself.

--S--

I looked at the hateful place and resisted the urge to gag, though I thanked the officers very prettily for their trouble. I can be quite charming when I want to be. It's a side effect of hanging out with Vicente.

"Dagmar!" _she_ sailed forward and hugged me. She smelled sickly-sweet as ever, that damned perfume she likes so much. "Oh, darling!" another squeeze.

"Mahina, please let me go. Right now," I said and gently but firmly distanced myself from her. Mahina hates it when I call her by her given name – but I don't particularly care. In fact, I could actually look at her without feeling old surges of biter resentment and disappointment. I didn't feel anything: she had finally become, in my eyes, what I had always said she was: a sheep.

Stupid, but harmless.

"Honey?" Mahina backed away and looked at me, her powdered face so painted I wondered why she bothered: it couldn't erase the ravages of time. She was getting old – I'll have to remember that when the claws eventually come out. And they will.

"So – do I have a little brother, yet?" I asked, knowing the comment would sting. If there _had_ been another 'oops' like myself…he hadn't been birthed. He hadn't had a chance to be _born_.

Any mage, any woman with some hint of magicka can make sure she doesn't get pregnant. Any man with any magicka can work a simple spell on himself to make sure he doesn't get his girl knocked up. It's very easy: I learned the spell at sixteen – not that I needed it, then. That was just precautionary.

I was pretty sure that after a dose of my love potion, my parents would have been so out of their minds that they wouldn't _think _to employ any sort of method to keep accidents from happening. And in the end, it hadn't worked.

I had my answer in her face.

There _had_ been an 'oops'. 'Had' being the operative word. I shook my head. "I'll be off, then," I said quietly and pulled my hood up. I'll bet Antoinetta is freaking out.

"But love…" Mahina said sweetly, cajolingly, "you just got home…"

"Home?" I looked over my shoulder. "I'm not home, Mahina. I'm grown – I moved out, remember?"

"You mean you _ran away_," Mahina said delicately. "It was a job, I can tell you, keeping the legion off your back about that poor mage-boy," her green eyes, smokier in color than my own narrowed, and she reached up to sweep a curl of graying, butter-blonde hair out of her face.

"That was no fault of mine, as the Guild very well knows. It's not my fault that he didn't listen when I said 'don't eat the stuff on my alchemy bench'. The stupid fetcher…" but I said it without heat, almost as if I was bored.

Mahina's expression suddenly hardened as she took my shoulder and turned me around. I had never seen such resolution on her face. "I'm very sorry, love, but now that you've come back…back you shall stay."

"You're making a very, very large mistake, Mahina. Let me go – and let me leave."

"My biggest mistake, by far," her composure was already rubbing off, and I was a little surprised. I guess getting old is affecting her love life. Or maybe she thought she could still control me with harsh words, as she had done, once upon a time. If so, she was terribly mistaken. "was _you_."

I smiled serenely, though it hurt to hear it, it was not nearly as bad as it had been before. In fact, I smiled sadly at her. I have better family now, that love me. That I love in return. There's no greater balm. The ache of the old wound dulled and then stopped, within minutes. "I know," I patted her hand and detached it from my shoulder. "Which is _why _I'm leaving."

"But dear, we have to discuss plans…"

I stopped and felt the blood drain from my face. "Still trying to order my life? I am a grown woman, Mahina – not your little girl," I shook my head slowly. She has no right to tell me what to do, or even advise me. I'm her mistake…remember?

"But darling, you'll always be my little girl…aren't you even a little curious?" Mahina smiled. She still thinks she knows me. How wrong she is.

"No, because I don't care…" I turned to see two of the private guards blocking my way. "Mahina, call them off," I advised.

"My dear, at least stay the night – it's getting late," it was only mid-afternoon, "You can have supper with us – it'll be like one big family," Mahina beamed ingratiatingly.

"Family? Here?" I turned. "With you and Arturius banging everything that walked? What 'family'?" I asked sharply.

Mahina's temper flared, and she slapped me, but it wasn't really effective, because I flicked up a hand to deflect the blow.

"See that Dagmar is taken to her chambers – and that she stays there. Dinner is at seven, you will attend," Mahina said firmly, but I saw a flicker of unease in her eyes as I stared emotionlessly back at her.

"You're getting old, Mahina – the nightlife cooling off, is it?" I asked, and smiled a little sadistically.

"I hope for your sake you've controlled yourself, during your little…absence," Mahina said spitefully and flounced off in a swirl of pink and light blue silks.

I watched her go and smiled: that's rich, coming from her. Well, whatever I have or have not been doing is none of her business, frankly. She may not seem like it, but Mahina is one of those people who is used to having her own way, and part of the reason for that is she is good at manipulating and bullying people, without looking like she is.

"Miss," one of the guards prompted, though he did not seem eager to do anything more stringent, than hope I would cooperate .

I turned to him. "When I decide to leave, you will be well-advised to stay the hell out of my way. Because I will _not _be here, come dawn," I said looking from one to the other of the two guards.

I once set fire to the kitchen, and I lost control of the spell.

Imagine what I'm going to do to this house in the wee hours of the morning. And with revenge on the brain, planning and plotting, I went, docile, up to my old room.

I'm not about to play Mahina's game forever, and I'll bet I know what scheme she's got running. It'll involve a man. It'll involve money. And I'll bet I'm the bridge: she's going to try and marry me off to some idiot – or psychopath. Probably psychopath. The problem is, she doesn't realize what kind of person I am at my core, these days. She's been out of touch with me for so long, if she ever knew me at all…it's all changed. I almost felt a vague creep of pity – I'm going to ruin her year.

Like I said: I won't be here in the morning. She's got to learn that people who leave home are _gone, _no long hemmed in by her sphere of influence. In fact, it's best she forget she ever had a daughter.

--S--

Arturius was making a show of being happy to have me home –and I finally met the little twerp I was probably supposed to marry. I actually knew him, and from what I did know, I would drug him and cut off his…well, his reason for living…on our wedding night before killing him. I will not suffer the touch of _that_.

Aside from which, his bents are rather sadistic, so the stories go –and I know enough people with twists and the like to know that at least half the stories would be true. But I smiled – I also noticed that I was not allowed to touch the food or the wine prior to supper. Not that I was eating much. I picked at it, shuffled my food around. I didn't trust them not to pull my own trick on me – imagine waking up next to _that, _I glanced at my silent suitor.

My ring, however, said all the food was safe…but I wasn't really hungry.

While before I would have found this individual odious, these days he was simply…pathetic. And wound up very silent at the table, as a result of the verbal flogging he got off of me, while trying to be clever. Once again, the company I keep had soured me on 'normal' people.

I smiled, and plotted – and I knew Mahina knew I was up to something. I was not being particularly subtle, but it was having the desired effect: Mahina and Arturius both kept casting nervous looks at me, and then at each other.

I was ready, I was going to burn this whole damn house down, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.

Of course, the real stroke of brilliance was that Mahina wasn't going to be able to do anything about it at all: she's a mage herself, it's where I get my talent from. But I had made plans already. My 'chambers' were still in possession of the evidences of my interests, so making a potion to stint her magicka was not a problem. The problem was getting it into a position where she would drink it, or otherwise ingest it.

It took some doing, but I managed.

I convinced the door-guard to let me a swing by her room, on the pretense that she had something of mine I needed back –and a few well-placed charm spells had him quite willing to do it. I slipped the poison into her many boxes of sweets, swabbed down the insides of cups – if she was in here, if she ate a single morsel, the tiniest sip – and Mahina likes sweets before bed – she was going to be unable to save the house, much less do anything to me.

Poor Antoinetta – I'll bet she's going spare…

Back up to my room, and I actually packed my own things –things I decided I wanted back at the Sanctuary. My sandalwood jewelry box, for instance. I waited until after midnight, when the house was silent, and then I opened the doors to my chambers as if I owned the house.

"Miss Dagmar…"

"I told you this afternoon, that when I chose to go, you would do well to be out of my way. Last warning – are my worthless parents worth dying for?" I asked and the fire spells flickered to life in my hands. It didn't matter if I lost control of the spells – in fact, it would be better if I did. "You have five seconds to run, or I'm going to make you kill me. If you can."

I launched the fireballs and when it became apparent that I was serious, I got results. I strolled down the halls, sending random flames here and there, whistling tunelessly.

I met Mahina and Arturius in the foyer, arguing with each other.

They went white when they saw me and stopped mid-rant. "I said I wasn't staying. Now…"

Mahina made a throwing motion at me and then stared in shock at her own hand, at the spell that remained stillborn.

"You're getting fat, Mahina," I said with a smile, "You should really cut back on the bedtime sweets – _all_ bedtime sweets," cruel but true.

Mahina looked ready to scream at me, but the scream, like her spell, stayed stillborn.

"Now," I adjusted my cloak as the flames overhead continued to roar. "I'm leaving. I'm gone. Don't look for me. Best you forget you ever birthed me. Bury me beside my unborn brother for all I care. Purge me from your life, or I will purge life from you. We won't have this talk again," and with that I pulled a chameleon spell over myself and strode out into the night, away from the blazing house, through the crowd gathering to try and stop the blaze from spreading.

I found the well that would lead down into the Sanctuary, but it was locked. I went in through the house, and answered the door's question.

Turns out, Antoinetta hadn't worried at all – she was chatting happily with a man I could only assume was the object of her affections. "Oh! Heya Sari!" Antoinetta beamed.

"Hi," I looked around. I was getting mildly curious looks and I wondered how far the nasty rumors –and the stories about how Banus Alor got his face rearranged – had gotten. "You look in good spirits."

"Well, you looked all clam when they hauled you off to that house, I figured you had something going. So I didn't worry," Antoinetta smiled. "And here you are!"

I set my bag down and a dark guardian shuffled up and took it, and my cloak. I grinned, and spent what turned out to be a very enjoyable four days with the Anvil branch of the Family.


	35. Chapter 35

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

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Chapter 34: Bungled

--

"Gotcha!"

I didn't respond to the comment but darted left, then right, then feinted and dodged right – landing a killing blow to Teinaava's midsection. If I had been wielding a real knife and not the wooden dummy-knife, he'd have been very dead. "No, I think I got you," I grinned, but it was short-lived.

I choked as someone came up behind me, grabbed me by the jaw and stuck a finger between my ribs – at that angle, it would have punctured my diaphragm and killed me, almost instantly. I could tell it was Vicente, because there was absolutely no warmth from the hand holding my jaw, or the body I was now leaning against.

"No, I think I got you," he said blandly and then righted me. "You _must_ learn to watch your surroundings, Sarielle. You were _expecting_ me to come after you, and you _still…" _

I abandoned the 'rules' of this sparring match and retaliated. I had been at this for four days, trying to hear or feel the damn vampire sneak up on me. I elbowed him in the gut – he gave an 'oomph!, not having expected me to come at him – and then slung him to the floor, exactly as I had been shown how to, two days before, by Teinaava, and put my foot on his throat. "Pretty feisty for a dead girl," I said flatly.

Vicente smiled at me sympathetically, and then yanked hard on my ankle – the one not on his throat.

I yelped as my backside met the cold hard floor with a jolt I felt all though my tailbone. "Ow!" this was both due to the fall and the fact that Vicente brought his heel down on my breastbone – gently so as not to cause lasting damage, but still. He could have very easily planted said action across my face, had this been real-life, and not sparring.

"Being dead does not limit one's feistiness, necessarily. Being cocky limits your longevity," he said blandly.

"And it hurts, too!" I wailed in mock-misery.

"Yes, life lessons hurt," Vicente agreed as he moved his foot and I got to my feet. "Still – you're improving."

"I would hope so – or all these bruises would be wasted," I grunted, but I grinned. I was recently back from doing a favor for Ocheeva and Teinaava – namely dealing with a renegade Shadowscale, who'd expatriated himself from their brotherhood. Now, I was dealing with the School of Hard Knocks and residual mosquito bites – the renegade Argonian had been down near Leyawiin, and the mosquitoes had nearly eaten me alive.

It was getting late – but those of us who were up were up because we simply _couldn't sleep - _Teinaava had spent the better part of four days in Anvil, and I had napped earlier. Vicente had just finished with supper, so the three of us were doing something constructive for a change.

There was a loud commotion from out in the common room. It was so sudden, that I was not immediately sure what it was, but needless to say the three of us trotted out of the training room quickly, to find out.

It was Antoinetta –who had been on a local contract since yesterday. She was crying, red-faced and practically incoherent with panic, struggling to breathe and cradling her right arm.

What is it with people mangling their arms these days? First me now her. But it did not take an archmage to figure out that the arm was sprained. Or at worst, broken. "Oh..." Antoinetta looked like she meant to say more but apparently could not, and simply gulped like a fish out of water.

"Antoinetta!" I darted forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and shunted her over to the nearest armchair. She was shaking and shivering like a little leaf. "What happened?" I asked a little startled.

"She's broken her arm," Vicente said calmly after gently prying Antoinetta's fingers away from the injured limb, and feeling along the bones with gentle, practiced fingers. "It'll be all right. Teinaava…"

Teinaava was already scuttling for the medical satchel.

"Oh – go away!" I said rather irritably as the dark guardians clattered up, disconcerted by the noise and distress, swords drawn, as if expecting a fight. "Go!"

"N-no…" Antoinetta choked. "I..f-failed the c-contract!" Antoinetta sobbed.

Oh yes. That could be upsetting.

"Ow!" she yelped, her voice breaking as Vicente suddenly gave her injured arm…I don't know –what I was sure of, was that he had just jostled the bones into proper alignment, so he could bind the injury, and it would set properly.

Teinaava returned and opened the satchel for Vicente, who knelt at Antoinetta's feet and gently straightened her arm, which she clutched to her breast as if to protect it from any further maltreatment.

" C-can't…I d-didn't…"

She didn't finish the contract. "This is no time to panic," I said calmly, reflecting my usual approach to bad things happening. I felt certainty and calm settle in my stomach, and began to follow through accordingly, calm and almost unperturbed.

My words, however, only set her off worse and it took Vicente a bit of effort to hold the girl in a seated position as I got up and checked my equipment. Vicente reached up and pressed her head to his shoulder, murmuring softly to her, as one might comfort an overwrought child.

I've been on the other end of that routine – it works.

"Give me the name," I said so calmly that Antoinetta looked up, hiccupping, as I fetched and then meticulously fastened my cloak at my throat. I pulled up my hood and regarded Antoinetta, as if to say 'well?'.

She answered blankly, automatically.

"Last known location?" I checked Sufferthorn in its sheath. Like the others, I rarely walk around in full armor unless I'm heading out on a job, but also like the others, I rarely walk around unarmed. It's just a habit, a comfortable habit, you get into.

Antoinetta answered, giving a rough idea.

"I'm going out – if anyone asks, I'm at the pub. I need a drink," I honestly did not expect Lucien to show up – he's been very busy, and I can tell that the only reason he's not snapping at people out of hand – he's come very close a couple times – is that he knows better, and would consider it bad form for a Speaker to take temper or stress out on his subordinates.

"You would have me lie even to the Speaker?" Teinaava asked sharply, his tail lashing nervously. I could tell he'd read between the lines: the only people out of the Sanctuary right now were Gogron and Telaendril.

No, they were not in the same place.

"…yes. I suppose I am... _If_ he shows up, and I don't expect him to, why add to his day? It's not like I'm going to pick a fight it with Adamus Phillida, call him out in single combat on the field of honor or some such rubbish," I said blithely. But then again, I planned to have this over and done with – and Lucien wouldn't know about Antoinetta's flubbed contract for a while yet.

Not unless he showed up in person and Teinaava was dumb enough to spill his guts and tell him.

Now, I honestly did not want to add to Lucien's day. He doesn't worry about us when we go out on contracts, but he does get a little upset when we come back all beat to shit, or with broken bones. Just a little – and then there's the fuss of hitting a target who's running scared, and it's a royal mess. So better we just clean up discreetly, and if he asks, we'll tell him 'this is this, and that's the other thing, and all we've got now are broken bones'.

I started for the well and hiked up the ladder. I had finally qualified for my own well-key, which is a physical key, but more than that, it tells the well, when you touch it, to open. You don't actually use it like a key. The well's hatch popped open and I slipped out. Unless he got a horse, I'd be able to catch up without too much difficulty.

--S--

It was not difficult, detect life helped me find the one flittering life force large enough to be Orismer, nighteye helped me keep my footing, and a sharp knife did the job. I caught the mark halfway to Harlun's Watch…and left him there.

--S--

The scene I beheld when I came back in – stealthily as possible – was one I was not ready for.

Antoinetta was holding a tumbler of something amber, and no doubt alcoholic. Sitting beside her on the arm of her chair, was Lucien, one arm wrapped very securely around Antoinetta, her head resting against him. She was still shaking like a leaf, and was still brilliantly scarlet from crying, but Lucien was speaking softly and gently to her, gently fingering her hair, looking very calm, almost benign.

Lucien immediately, upon spotting me, spoke for a moment to Antoinetta, and then slipped off his perch and walked over to where I was standing. "Well?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Normally this is where I'd ask 'well what?', but this was not the time for smartass remarks. "It's done, it's finished." I answered blandly and handed my cloak to Tag, who shuffled up for it.

"Clean?" Lucien asked.

"No, not really, but then again, he _did_ break Antoinetta's arm. Speaking of which…I suppose it _is_ broken?" I asked, wincing. I knew it was – but I didn't want it to be.

Lucien nodded. "Yeah – but it could be worse. She'll just have to stay here for a few weeks."

"You're going to _ground _her?" I blinked. That'll break Antoinetta's heart. It had nearly broken mine.

"Well, I grounded _you_ for a dead arm, what did you think I was going to do? Let her cavort around with an injury like that? You must think I'm trying to get you people killed," there was undisguised anger at this – and it was completely undeserved. Or so I thought. I had made no such suggestion – it wasn't as if Antoinetta had been the object of an assassination plot like I had been – grounding her like that seemed a little extreme, to my way of thinking.

"Hey," I pointed a warning finger at him. I knew what this stemmed from: it spoke loudly that he was still carrying the weight of Elrick's death, on top of the aforementioned bad week.

Lucien looked like he would have preferred to respond nastily, but to his credit he did not. He mustered patience –which I'm known to strain – and answered in low murmur that nonetheless was quite easy to understand. "I do what I must, for the Family. And that includes grounding them if they won't stay put themselves, when they're hurt," his eyes flashed before he turned sharply on his heel.

"So who grounds _you_ when _you_ get hurt?" I asked, a little nastily, but I was still feeling stung from the earlier remark.

Lucien actually stopped walking, and I knew I was getting close to touching some invisible line. I half wondered if he was going to warn me that I was pushing my luck. "That," he said quietly, "is part of the job. And an occupational hazard," I knew that for me to press the issue any further would be crossing a line that should not be crossed.

I sighed – it's a sad truth - and watched Antoinetta promptly begin to cry again, when she was told she was to stay put, until she was healed. Lucien walked out, pausing only long enough to give me a rather cold look, which I answered with the perfect blend of pride and blank neutrality.

So, we 'stay put' when we get hurt…and he continues business as usual?

What bullshit.

I sighed and walked over to sit with Antoinetta and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's not that bad..." she whispered, as if willing it to be true.

"I know," I said gently. "But…" I let the sentence die. There was no 'but' to it.

I hate it when he's 'tough boss' instead of likable Lucien. "Come on – you'll feel better after a bath and some sleep."

The old standby…

--S--

I walked down to Vicente's office once Antoinetta was sleeping fitfully, with Schemer curled up nearby to keep an eye on her, and for company.

"You do test your mettle in odd ways," Vicente said once I'd opened the door.

I glowered. "You heard about that?" I didn't ask how or why I hadn't seen him. Vicente can make himself nearly invisible, without spells, when he wants to.

Vicente gave a sort of snort that indicated I had asked an exceedingly silly question. "Was it temper or concern?"

"Both – I don't like being snapped at for no reason," I threw myself into the other chair.

"Who does?" Vicente said mildly, then grew serious, and I knew I was being chastened, albeit gently, for my lapse in courtesy and diplomatic speech. "Well, you do know that Lucien is not exactly a field man, anymore."

"Not by definition," I answered. You can take a man out of the field, but you don't take the field out of a man. I hope I never attract the attention of the Black Hand – I don't want to be a Speaker, no, nor even the _Listener_.  
Vicente chuckled then, rather unexpectedly. "I'm interested to see which of you winds up with burned fingers first. May I advise you to keep that sharp tongue in the sheath for a few days?"

"You may," I sank back. "Still. People _resent_ being grounded –even if it's for their own good."

Vicente didn't argue, merely sighed. "You young people," he sighed again.

"So, who does _ground _Lucien, when he gets hurt?" I asked, a little petulantly.

Vicente sighed. "No one, Sarielle," Vicente regarded me closely.

I looked away. I hate invoking 'fair' and 'not fair', so I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the statement, 'That's not fair' silent.

And I don't mean 'not fair' to us, I mean 'not fair' to him.

And knowing what I know about the way the Black Hand is balanced out right now…that's not reassuring.


	36. Chapter 36

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter 35: A Funny Way of Asking

--

I knew it was going to be one of _those _days.

"Oi!" I yelped but not fast enough. I suppose I shouldn't have just stared at the well entrance opening up just before my hand touched the ladder. I _should_ have jumped back, and fast – because Lucien literally dropped in, from the very top of the ladder.

Should have, could have, would have – the fact is that I _didn't_.

He didn't land on me, he simply landed too close, and knocked us both over into a rather tangled heap. I somehow wound up separating his hood from his shoulders as I flailed – with both arms and one leg, because he had the other leg pinned by his calf at the ankle. "Who…wah?! Wha-ha!" I yelped, fighting not to laugh as I did so, at the utter ridiculousness.

"Ugh…just the minion I was looking for…hold still, woman," Lucien grunted and I heard him wince as he reached over.

Hmm – I must not be too far down on his shitlist after the other night, otherwise he wouldn't have called me his 'minion'. It's not a word he usually uses. But I had to half grin…except that what I actually did was yelp when he, in his distaste for being so graceless, yanked the hood off my head.

"Ow, ow! you've got my hair! You've got-" I didn't finish the sentence before he let go sharply. I reached up and flopped my hood off and scowled at him, massaging my scalp with one hand. "Ow…What's your beef?" I whined, though a better question would have been a cheerful, 'what's up?'

"Crashing into people at the bottom of a ladder..._Will you get off my robes?" _Lucien demanded irritably, and he gave the lower half of his robes a tug, and they shifted beneath me, causing my balance to shift and I flailed again to maintain my rather precarious balance. He scowled and I grinned ruefully. Apparently he was pinning my leg because I was pinning him pretty effectively in turn.

I shifted my weight and we silently disentangled. "You're one to talk, you crashed into me."

"…Nobody saw that," we both half-snarled at each other. Then I grinned at him. Lucien wasn't in nearly so good a mood, merely harassed - it's really annoying when you're in a harassed mood, and wind up in a situation anyone else would find hilarious.

"Ugh," I declared, and swept up the ladder.

Then climbed back down to find Lucien finally trying not smirk – it looked like he was really working at it, by now. I have that effect on people, I suppose. I tried to snag my satchel back from him, but he maintained his grip. "I want a word," he said simply.

"Oh…" I groaned.

"Yes, I'm very happy that you're happy to hear it –this way," and still carrying my satchel, Lucien started off.

I have never been in Lucien's office here, so I was understandably curious. It's across the hall from Vicente's room, and is almost always closed off. I was surprised to find it was more like…a very spacious broom cupboard. But I guess he has his real office wherever he is when he's not cavorting around Cyrodiil, or here. There was a hollowed-out niche in the wall that had a mattress and bedding on it – I imagine sleeping on it would be like being a loaf of bread on a shelf.

He threw himself down behind his desk, a very study piece of equipment with lots of drawers and began searching for something, throwing my satchel to the floor as if he'd forgotten it wasn't actually his. I picked it up and opened it. I had been planning a reagent-gathering expedition, so there was nothing breakable in there, but just the same, my shears are pretty sharp, and I'd hate for them to wind up damaging the bag.

I was not surprised to see that his desk was in an advanced stated of chaos. I grinned – I _knew_ it.

"Where's Ocheeva?"

I shrugged. "I dunno – I think she took some time out for a swim. Things were getting kind of thick in here," I said idly. The truth is, is that I have a guilty conscience. See, M'raaj finally got on my last nerve, so rather than deface him by cutting off his whiskers, I simply spiked his secret stash of sweets - Khajiiti have a sweet tooth, remember? (In fact, I think that it's more like they have one tooth that's not a sweet tooth, and the rest _are_.) Anyway – he took a taste of something and wound up tearing around the Sanctuary, thinking his mouth was on fire – I'd used a particularly potent blend of chili peppers I _was_ gearing towards hot sauce for Gogron's Wrothgarian Chili-Cheese to do it. No one had traced it back to me, but it'd really only a matter of time, and I'm not eager to let the truth get out.

Nowhere in the Tenants does it say I have to put up with M'raaj's crap. Nor does it say I'm not allowed to strike back.

"What did you do?" he asked, looking shrewdly at me.

"Why do you assume I _did_ anything?!" I asked, perhaps a bit too zealously. He's quite correct to assume…

Lucien gave me a 'you _did_ do something, didn't you' look. I wasn't sure if he'd be amused or not, but when he's giving you _that _look…

"All right – I spiked M'raaj's secret stash of sweets with chili pepper extract. He deserved it! I've been putting up with his shit since I got here and I was _tired_ of it!" I said in a rush – hating myself for spilling my guts. I crossed my arms and hunched slightly.

Lucien blinked, his expression rearranging into mild puzzlement, as if wondering if someone hadn't put something in _my _food.

"That…wasn't what you meant, was it?" I asked, realizing I had just succumbed to guilty conscience. Dammit.

"No, not at all…but thank you for sharing," Lucien said mildly, momentarily shaken out of his harassed preoccupation. "I need you to pass this along to Vicente…I need him to play stand-in for me," Lucien declared with an abrupt return to preoccupation.

"Where're you headed?" I asked with interest.

Lucien sighed. "North and east."

"Towards Morrowind?" I frowned and eyed his back suspiciously. There are two important things in Morrowind: Telvanni bugmusk, and the Morag Tong. One is good and one is not.

"It _does_ lie in that direction.," Lucien said a little stiffly.

"Be…really careful," I said quietly. It begins to sound like something he'd have passed off to his gofer, if he could have. It sounds that way, because he was passing off his usual responsibilities to Vicente, and if there's one thing I know about Lucien, he won't let a field assignment he could delegate interfere with what he knows is his duty.

Plus – you know, one of us getting that close to Morrowind…I'm not sure how things stand but that would make me a little nervous. I mean, they obviously can't…don't…mess with us here in Cheydinhal, but…call it a rookie's concerns. They may be baseless, but they are there.

Lucien turned in his chair, scowled. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded.

I balked – I hadn't expected him to snap. I had expected an off-handed 'I'll be careful', like I give. It's what you say to let people know you're really paying attention to what's going on and not just larking around without a clue or care. But the bite in his tone was unmistakable, and I reacted in proper Sarielle form to being snapped at, out of hand. I got miffed. "What do you think I mean? I mean 'watch your ass'," I said sharply, scowling at him.

Lucien got up out of his chair but I held my ground and I realized _why_ he was so unaccountably rankled – or at least part of it. My comment had been innocently meant, but apparently he didn't think so. "_Look_, I don't _doubt_ your competence, if that what you're thinking. All I'm saying is that if you're going to be doing anything to or against the Morag Tong, then you might want to consider taking a little backup. That's all," I mean, I'd rather walk straight up to Adamus Phillida, call him a Family-hating ass and try to punch his armor full of holes with only my Blade of Woe than go after Morag Tong agents without some kind of contingency, or backup.

Like Vicente – don't underestimate those bums.

"Who said anything about the Morag…"

"_Don't_ insult my _intelligence_!" I barked, feeling heat rise to my face – if I had accidentally stepped on his toes, he may well have just accidentally stepped on mine…but it was hard not to get rankled, when my most-commented on attribute is my intelligence. "You may be a field man at heart but you _aren't one right now_! You're a _Speaker_ of the Black Hand, and the Tong would like _nothing_ better than to knock you off, unless it's taking out our Listener! And if there's one thing I know about the..."

"What do you know about the Tong?" his voice was sharp with suspicion.

I could have punched him, right then and there, fortunately, I was only miffed and not incoherent with temper, so I didn't. "Stay put," I snarled and stormed to the barracks, grabbed the book I'd been reading off and on and stormed back and flung it down on Lucien's desk.

It was a Brotherhood treatise on the Morag Tong, their organization, internal workings – a 'know thy enemy' kind of book. "Tactics," I said sharply. "You're not immune to sneak attacks, Lucien –however great an assassin you are. And if it was a simple 'kill them off' you'd send one of us, so I can only assume that this is…is an information thing. And how the _hell_ are you going to watch your _back_ when you're busy asking the questions?" I asked. "Shit-damn!" it's a bad day if I string my expletives together.

"You're out of line…" It was very obvious he's not used to Family members being this…proactive. Then again, if he expected much else, he should have asked Antoinetta or one of the others.

"Was Vicente out of line, too? Because I can't _believe_ he'd approve of this!" It's a low-blow, using the fact that Lucien still has a pupil's deference to his former master. "and it's not like you couldn't wake him if you wanted to..."

"No need for that, you've done the job admirably," Vicente's voice said from the doorway. He looked ill of temper and particularly malevolent. I backed away slightly, towards Lucien – Vicente's about as scary as I am when he gets woken early…"Sarielle, shush," he said, holding up a hand to indicate he was not in a mood to humor me if I pushed my luck.

I clenched my teeth, but shivered still, the image of Vicente up in my face, eyes glowing flashing in my mind's eye. I crossed my arm and listened to Vicente – who didn't have much to say, except that if we wanted to argue, that was our business, but not to wake the dead while doing so.

He withdrew and Lucien and I gave each other malevolent looks.

"So what now –you gonna sick the Wrath of Sithis on my…" I started, though some of the bite had left my tone, rendering me sounding tired and rather resigned.

"Kh," Lucien waved a hand, and I aborted the sentence. Maybe it wasn't such a great thing to invoke, but still.

I sighed and ran a hand over my hair. "I just…" It was my turn to hold up a hand. "I just don't think that it's a well thought-out plan, that's all. I consider you a friend, Lucien. And what kind of friend would I be, if I didn't tell you that this is the _worst_ plan _ever_. It's a two-man mission, and you know it, unless you can ensure that no one can sneak up on you – and the Morag Tong's sneaky. That's all." How does he know it's not a trap? The Tong have used that tactic before, sending agents tantalizingly close and then taking out the assassin who went to investigate, or whatever.

I resisted the impulse to apologize, and sighed instead. "I don't doubt your skills –and I'm not a mother hen, to worry out of hand" I said dryly. It seemed to me like a lot of temper had left the room when Vicente called us down for being loud. "You may call yourself 'Lachance', but that's all it is, Lucien: luck. And luck is fickle and fleeting and one of these days it's going to up and walk off on you. This Family has lost enough people. You are our Speaker, our Brother, our friend – the blow would be devastating. It would _kill _Antoinetta_._ And then to whom would I be witty and clever?" I added, a vague ploy for sympathy, which actually seemed to work.

"To whom indeed?" he was still scowling slightly, but it was a more thoughtful scowl.

"Now, don't get too carried away," but I grinned as I said it.

Lucien then gave me a dazzling smile that was so sinister in its dazzling-ness that I knew he had just made a snap decision that was going to put some kind of crimp in my day. "Get you boots on," he cuffed my shoulder and turned toward his desk.

"Why?" The dumb question was out of my mouth before I could stop it, so I didn't actually see Lucien stop and turn – I had scrunched up my face and closed my eyes. Ask a stupid question…

"Such an attractive look, that. After all that fuss, you're still asking questions? Go get your boots," he said, though without as much frustration as before.

I knew better than to ask – though by now I rather suspected I was being conscripted as his lookout.

And so he could prove he was still field man, despite my assertions that that was not what this was about.

I had to admit, as I laced up my boots and slipped a dagger into the left one – I was curious. Part of me wanted to see him in action…see what kind of skill it took to claw one's way to the top. The small, very treacherous portion of my mind –that had been yawning and stretching sleepily these past few weeks – simply wanted to admire the view.

It occurred to me here…that there might have been a reason he'd chosen to leave word with me – knowing I'd tell him what I thought. It hinted that he might have had misgivings, and needed someone to strong-arm him into taking along backup…because he'd feel guilty about asking us to volunteer. And I had already proved that I have a tendency to volunteer, so long as I think it's my own idea.

Three steps ahead...hot _damn_! He's done it _again_!

I huffed as I gathered my things and met Lucien by the well entrance, scowling. "Why not just _ask_ me? Wouldn't that be easier?" I turned and crossed my arms. "Would it _kill_ you?"

Lucien's mouth twitched –I don't think he expected me to catch on before we were halfway to wherever. "Ask?" Lucien raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, ask," I said, following him up the ladder and out of the well. "You know 'hey Sari, I need a favor', and I'd say 'like what?'" I said then chuckled as I straightened my cloak and pack, looking around – coast was clear. "Come on," knowing that this was Lucien up to his old tricks and games again, made it easier to be friendly again. Anymore, I tend to feel that if he can manipulate me, it means I wasn't paying enough attention, and therefore, deserve exactly what I get. "It's not like a blow to pride to _ask_ someone to do something…but if you're smart you'll think about things you should _avoid_ asking. Or I might go back to that whole 'you're really pissing me off' track," I was half-joking, but I was sure he already knew it. It was sort of obvious.

His expression twitched, as if my good humor was infectious. Maybe it is. "We can't have that," Lucien's tone dripped sarcasm, but it made me smile even more broadly. Anything else would have been unexpected. "Well then," he twitched his mouth a little. "I need a favor," he didn't look at me when he said it, and it was obvious he was now playing what I would call 'our game'.

"I'm listening," I would never agree to something out of hand, firstly, it's a bad idea, secondly, it sets a bad precedent. Not that I thought Lucien would ask me to do anything I might have a problem with – but still. I can't let bad precedents get started…


	37. Chapter 37

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

Special thanks to L'Ankou, tsp159, and Fire Kunai for feedback and encouragement!

--

Chapter Thirty-Six: Dispatching the Tong

--

"So - what exactly _do_ you know about the Morag Tong?" Lucien asked, once we were both on horseback, and well outside of Cheydinhal. I had rented a mount for the trip, and Lucien had Shadowmere – who did not like my borrowed mount anywhere near her.

"They're public enemy number two," I answered comfortably.

"Only two?"

"Well, they don't live in Cyrodiil, do they?" I smirked. I was, of course, referring to Adamus Phillida.

He looked for a moment like he was going to ask 'whose number one' then stopped and smiled. "Very good. I assume you know our…history?"

I nodded. "You assume correctly."

"Good – because that's who we're after today. Normally I'd..." he stopped.

I kicked my horse to walk a little faster, but said nothing. I could hear Elrick's name in the offing. Then I made a snap decision. "Tell me about him," I looked over at Lucien.

"Who?" it was a warning question – that this was not a topic he wanted to get into with me.

"Elrick. You knew him better than I did. He seemed…a very likable sort. He used to call me Little Sister – do you know that?" I smiled brightly.

"He would," Lucien's smirk indicated he knew something I didn't, about that.

"Why's that?" I asked with polite interest. I can't believe he's going to fall for this…unless some part of him _wants_ to. Still…I'm _this close_ to doing to Lucien what he's always doing to me: subtle manipulation.

Lucien smirked slightly. "Elrick has a thing for girls with green eyes."

"Ah," I chuckled at this. "That explains it."

--S--

Lucien led the way – and we talked. Well, I probably talked more, because guys are not exactly the chattiest creatures. But when Lucien talks, he's generally got something to say. He seemed almost...happy to be out and on his way to deeds nefarious. We talked about Elrick. We bashed the Listener, just a little bit – an idiot Bosmer, apparently.

It was getting on past noon when I started humming –we'd both been quiet for a stretch and it was finally getting to me. I don't mind quiet when I'm studying, or on a job…but when there's no strict need for it, it grates on my nerves. It surprised me a little that at no point was I commanded to silence. I had thought that he'd tell me to shut up within fifteen minutes.

That was when I started to sing – albeit quietly. I like to sing, as I've said, and it's been awhile since I was able to do it on the road. My horse persisted in prancing about as I did so, so I really had my hands full – literally. But it was an enjoyable trip.

--S--

I had no idea where we were, once were stopped to have a planning session. With my horse tethered to a tree and Shadowmere grazing silently on her own, Lucien and I had lunch and planned. Apparently, there were two Morag Tong agents, who had crossed into Cyrodiil. They'd been lurking for several days, and with any luck, would still be there. He wouldn't tell me what questions he wanted to ask them, but I figured that if all I was was a lookout, he hardly needed to tell me. I wasn't exactly a participant, and therefore did not need to know.

Apparently, this is how it is: you don't just cross into the other factions' territory and think you get in unnoticed – they're just as dogmatic about killing us – and I was told without Lucien actually saying it, that my suspicions of extra agents or lookouts was probably quite accurate. I didn't grin at this, merely nodded and considered what I'd need to do to make sure we both walked away –because apparently we were going to be operating very close to the Morrowind-Cyrodiil border, and that required care.

--S--

We came upon them as they were sleeping. There were two – though I was to remain vigilant, in case there were more. Well, I say 'they' were sleeping. One was half-awake, an apprentice, or so it seemed to me, to the Dunmer who was resting. It was the apprentice that Lucien got rid of first – the one least likely to know anything.

Actually, _I_ was the one who lured him out. It's amazing what a few well-placed illusions can do in getting a person to come to you. Once he was sufficiently distanced from his master – knife drawn in case I turned out to be more of flesh and less of fantasy after all, it was an easy matter of Lucien to come up behind him, gag him with one hand and snuff his life with a dagger in the other.

Very efficient, though I didn't say so. I cast detect life and looked around – still nothing, and the radius was fairly good. I had an uncomfortable prickle, a tingle in my guts that had nothing to do with death, or nerves, or anything like that. It was a hunch, a nasty, creeping suspicion that I was right to be vigilant, and no matter how much I wanted to eavesdrop on and watch the interrogation…I had to keep my eyes peeled.

The moons cast a ghostly dusting over the landscape, as I found a rock upon which I could stand, and keep the watch. I could see Lucien and the Dunmer, I could see the mountainous terrain to the north, jutting up against the sky: black behind blackest. It was here that I noticed that there were no small-sounds - no crickets, no birds, none of the night-noises one generally associated with out-of-the-way campsites, which only served to heighten my sense of unease.

I cast nighteye over myself as well, hoping to see whatever might be out there, before it came into the radius of my detect-life spell, but still, nothing.

Lucien's work was exacting, I noticed as I took a few minutes to watch. I couldn't even hear the questions, but I did realize very quickly that he was using a silence spell, on and off, to keep the Dunmer quiet, except when bidden to answer. That's a particularly exacting use of power, by the way. You have to admire his spellcraft.

I smiled as I looked around again, turning in a full circle on my rock to do so.

Back to Lucien and the unlucky Dunmer – whatever answer the latter had given, Lucien didn't like it. His face was a mask of cold indifference that oddly, didn't bother me. Nor did it bother me to watch the play of knife work.

I checked again and this time I saw something move.

I see you there…

I glanced back to Lucien. He had his back to the movement – which was still outside my detect-life spell. No – let the assassin get a little closer. Just a little – they'll want to watch…there's a chance they haven't seen me yet.

I sat down on my rock and willed the shadows to close around me - Lucien would be able to see me just fine…but at a distance, I'd look like nothing more than a hole in the landscape, or even part of the rock. Unless they were using a detect-life spell themselves, which was entirely possible.

I continued to watch the motion, and soon, it came within range of my detect-life spell. "How's it coming?" I asked softly.

"Slowly."

"Yes, I noticed…" I answered blandly. I could tell that we could be here a while, and I continued to watch the little life force shimmering in the distance, whoever they were, they were on their belly, and moving slowly forward, slithering like the snake they were. I glanced over at Lucien, he was asking a question again, I could hear the rumble of his voice, and for a moment the ragged panting of the Dunmer.

I looked back to the other agent. He...or she…had stopped moving, lying in the grass. It must be hard, knowing that his or her master was being tortured, and they were just laying there, unable to intervene…but his back is to you…come a little closer…and I'll remove that burden from your mind.

You'll never have to worry again.

Lucien sighed and clicked his tongue as if in disappointment and there was the start of a whimper of pain that was cut off almost immediately. "How's it look?" Lucien asked, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Dark," I answered, much in the same fashion as he'd answered me. It would arouse less suspicion that way.

"Yes, I _had _noticed," he retorted, but took this to mean that everything was under control, and as it should be.

Well, that's true, to a certain point of view. The wind shifted and I caught the tang of blood. Or maybe I was just now noticing it – all my concentration as on the Morag Tong agent creeping towards us again. I moved slightly on my rock, and Lucien didn't notice. He was too busy with what he was doing…

I looked back to the life-force. It had stopped again. I could almost see invisible eyes in a faceless head looking around, calculating, trying to see if they could successfully reach the Dark Brotherhood agent…and kill him…before detection, before the Dunmer was dead.

Though whether said Dunmer would be of any use to anyone at this point, I wasn't sure. I had the feeling Lucien might just be playing cat and mouse here. But I understood, at least philosophically, why. Being trapped behind a desk – more or less - and then being released into the wilds? That's a recipe for distraction.

It's good I'm here to keep a discreet eye on things.

There was a nasty sound, a wet squelch and then Lucien rose to his feet. I looked back at my mark, which put my back to Lucien, and I felt a calm settle over me. The agent had stopped moving again.

Shadowmere and my horse were tethered some way away, and I knew Shadowmere didn't like it – though I was reasonably sure that two black horses in the dark might be overlooked. Particularly as Shadowmere is…an unusual creature, to say the least. She had whickered in annoyance at Lucien the whole time he was tying her up, despite his gentle request for understanding.

If he sweet talked people half as well as he does that horse…Valerian, Vicente's friend, would have had it just about right. "Are you quite finished?" I asked quietly, not willing to give myself away just yet.

I don't know what it was. I wasn't smiling, I was simply sitting there, watching Lucien make an enormous mess – it had to be an enormous mess - and I resisted the urge to curl my lip. Not at Lucien though, I just wasn't much for messy killings. I'd sooner charm a person into telling me what I wanted to know – it saves time. But not everyone has a delicate touch –though I don't mean to imply that his knife work was sloppy. Quite the contrary.

If I had ever doubted that Lucien was an artist in the realm of assassination and murder, all doubt would have been removed – he's as exacting as I am during the actual follow-though, whereas my exacting lies in the plans, so everything falls together like shuffled cards.

I rose from my rock and moved so that it was screening me mostly from view, and so I could still see the creeping life-force.

"You don't approve?" Lucien's voice was light, and vaguely sardonic. His eyes glinted slightly in the blue-light that enabled me to see.

I glanced over at him and shook my head. I didn't care about the now-corpse. It didn't even unsettle me that Lucien had just carved a man to ribbons and probably enjoyed himself, if the spatters of blood all over his face and armor were any indication. In fact, I was very sure he had – though not, perhaps, the same was Gogron does.

I now had my attention divided – the creeping agent had stopped again, and I was sure they were trying to figure out if Lucien was monologing to himself, or to an actual person. It would be hard for them to tell, and spellwork might betray their position, if they had the skill.

"You're getting sloppy, Speaker. Damn sloppy. Get cleaned up – I'll take care of the mess," and with that I walked into the darkness and heard Lucien chuckle. I think he's missed the joke, to be honest – but he walked towards Shadowmere to fetch his canteen. It's not a good idea to ride around with blood all over your face.

I slipped into the darkness, as close to invisible as I could ever hope to be. All I had to worry about was a detect life spell – but I don't think my mark had the ability to cast it. Or they would already be aware of me, and would be running away, to bring the tale back it his masters.

Lucien perched on my rock as I doubled back around the agent, so that I could approach from behind. I glanced back – Lucien looked like such a perfect target – well, almost perfect, as he had his profile to us. Even though we had doused the fire before he'd begun his queries, nighteye rendered that immaterial.

The agent was moving faster now as I slipped up closer behind. I knew that this was where they would have revenge in mind – though they'd never get a change to strike.

A moment later I pounced.

Lucien shot to his feet, but it didn't matter. My mark cushioned my fall, the heavy blow of a suddenly falling body impacting stunned…her…and a moment later she was dead, her throat gaping and spewing blood into the grass. The tangy copper smell boiled up on the air and the nasty, niggling sensation I'd been going on was suddenly gone.

I got to my feet and gave Sufferthorn a good shake to send any remaining blood flying into the air. Hopefully, wild animals will scavenge the bodies. Only the Tong would ever know how these people really died. I wondered if I could try summoning a scamp or something – it's a very basic conjuration, but not one I think I've ever used. I despise scamps on principle – more so after my stint in Oblivion. But that doesn't mean I discount their usefulness entirely. This would be a job for scamps…as far as the spell goes, I've seen it done a few times…but well, I lack the confidence.

If Lucien wants clean cleanup, he'll have to do it.

"How long did you know _that_ was out there?" Lucien asked, eyeing me quite calmly, though his hand was still on the knife at his hip. His posture radiated a sort of nervousness, as close to being startled as you'd ever see him.

"Long enough," I shrugged "You missed a spot, just there," I tapped my face to the corresponding spot.

"Mm," came the bemused, but noncommittal answer.

I prowled over to the corpse of the Dunmer and looked: it was a _very_ precise job. It would have made a normal person a little queasy to see, let alone see it in progress, so I shall spare the detail – even I was a little glad that nighteye leeches out all color, rendering things blue and black, nothing in between. But the smell was pretty thick.

It came to me as I stood there, that I simply _don't_ enjoy lengthy killings. I've always believed that efficiency was my strength. Like a hawk flown at a mark: it knows its quarry, it kills it quickly and returns to the master's glove for its reward.

Call it my inner bean counter.

I looked back at Lucien –well, following the allegory, I suppose his is the glove I hail to these days, though it would never do to tell him that. He'd just twist it to his own ends, and I'd lose whatever advantage I have in our little game.

And that wouldn't be fun. I smiled and stepped back from the body.

It also struck me here that Lucien really does need to be walked regularly, just like the rest of us. And when an assassin is walked…properly walked…it generally involved a corpse or two in their wake.

"I thought you were going to handle cleanup," Lucien said from just behind my shoulder.

I flinched but didn't jump or start. I glanced back – six inches of separation, shoulder to shoulder – he was standing catty-corner to me, so he had a clear view of more than just the back of m y head. "If you want a clean cleanup, summon up a couple of scamps," I said mildly. "If you want a charbroiled cleanup…I'll be happy to oblige you," I raised a hand and Lucien chuckled.

I ignored the implication – it didn't bother me in the slightest – for I had realized some time ago, that those sort of jokes only work if the person in my shoes reacts to it. Point to Sarielle.

"Save it – I don't want you burning down half the borderlands."

"What you really mean, is that you don't want sparks to scorch _your_ precious hide," I responded coolly, but still joking.

Lucien reached over and rested a hand on my far shoulder, and leaned over. "Are you getting attached to me, Sarielle?"

I chuckled, and it was a truly dark and sinister sound - I felt his hand twitch in an involuntary way. I plucked his hand delicately off my shoulder and stepped back, out of reach and bowed slightly. "Walk always in the shadow of death, Brother," and turned back to the corpse. "Leave them for the wild beasts, then?"

"Lend me a hand, and I'll see to it," Lucien said simply, but his tone implied that I was being no fun.

Which I took to mean I was actually winning for once.

I held up a hand and he took it and raised the other.

Now, this may seem odd, but in fact, it's not. Magicka can be channeled –what he was actually saying was that to do a thorough job, it required more resources than he had readily available - and that the casting required the loan of mine. It's a mage's thing, but I didn't think that self-taught mages – the ones who are not guild-trained at any point – were very good at it.

I was surprised - he wasn't.

"You're going to drain me dry…" I said a moment later and pulled free, breaking the link, shivering slightly and massaging my cold fingers. "Here…you worry about the summon, I'll handle the resources…" it was true, the clumsy attempt to pull power was like having my arm wrenched, and it made me break out in a cold sweat. I let him have my hand again.

I took a moment to steady myself. I glanced over at Lucien, his expression was impassive. "On three…" I counted down and let magicka flow into my fingertips, as I would for any spell, but rather than stop and become an actual spell, the power flowed out of my hand and into his. It would move up his arm and he would redirect it from there, as if it had been his power the whole time.

I heard the signs uttered and closed my eyes to make sure that the flow of power didn't falter. That's another sign of a badly-trained or self-taught mage: when an uplink like this falters. It can also have bad effects on whoever's drawing the additional magicka – like having something snap back at you.

"There."

I slowed the power flow, and it thinned to a trickle then broke off entirely – carefully withdrawn so as not to cause dizziness or other power-drain symptoms, and then I let go of Lucien's hand. I looked. Already the half-dozen scamps were falling upon the food. "You never trained as a mage, did you?" I asked mildly, watching the little wretches gorge themselves on the meat.

"How did you know?"

I smiled, catlike, and shrugged. "A hunch," he might have the rest of the world fooled, but not me.

"Keep it under your hat, hmm?"

"What are friends for?" I asked benignly.

--Author's notes appended—

The theory of mages 'chained' together to create more expansive spells/effects goes back to the theory that one alone couldn't perform the necessary spells that you'll find on places like the Sanctuary, just as if you put several individuals casting separately, you could wind up with magical 'gaps', easy to exploit. This explains, further, the kind of damage it would take to break the enchantments on the Kvatch Sanctuary, which was warded similarly. It's my explanation for a complex concept – and Sarielle is not skilled in conjuration. Lucien, having been spelling his target, would have had a lowered magicka count – to use the in-game reference – and would have needed to either recharge, or pull magicka from somewhere else.


	38. Chapter 38

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Bad Medicine

--

It was after this encounter with the Morag Tong – and I was cautioned that if anyone in the Family asked where I'd been, with the exception of Vicente, that I was to say that he'd needed a courier, and I had been available. I agreed – this was not the sort of mission that I wanted to talk about. Taking out rival factions should be discreet –and with the rumors about Lucien and myself still buzzing around like so many pesky mosquitoes, no one outside the Sanctuary would assume it had been anything work-related.

The fools.

"They don't need to know what kind of crazy stunts you get up to," Lucien had smirked at me, from astride Shadowmere, after I'd returned my horse to the stable outside Cheydinhal.

"The trouble _I_ get into? I keep _you_ in business, boss," I said cheekily.

Lucien smiled then his expression shifted into something I wasn't sure how to read. "It's good that you've finally stopped running."

That wiped the smile off my face. "Running? From what?" I asked, a little warily.

Lucien gave me a benign sort of smile. "Everything," and with that he turned Shadowmere and gave her a gentle kick, sending her towards the Imperial City at a brisk prance. Shadowmere rarely walks – she prances or strolls gracefully. She's the strangest horse I've ever see in my entire life.

I watched him go, scowling in deep thought. I wasn't running from anything! Or everything.

I turned to stomp off, back into the city and then stopped at the gate and felt a prickle of annoyance. Dammit –for the millionth time, he's right.

That man is dangerous. He knows way too much about me, and he won't hesitate to use that to his advantage. Sometimes I could wring his neck…

From what was I running? Well, that had been easy, once I stopped fuming and thought about it.

I'd been running from my family, for one. The Mages' Guild. Anvil itself. My family's reputation. My own pain and fear. Perhaps it was something that had happened on my last trip to Anvil. I realized that ,when I'd refused to duck my head and politely bow out, say I was wrong, in Lucien's office before, when instead I'd held my ground…it was a sign of change. I'd always wondered if I'd ever have true courage, and perhaps this was the glimmering of it.

I felt oddly…free…as I walked back into Cheydinhal, and the first thing I did was to go to the cobbler, to have a pair of boots made. Special boots, just for me.

I decided to dispatch with the heavy boots that came with my shrouded armor, and change to the lighter, more stealthy make, in black doeskin. Of course, they were expensive…but I managed. In fact, they were probably some of the best-spent septims I've earned this year, for once the boots were finished, I was well-pleased with them.

I wouldn't be able to run on a sprained ankle, or a fractured bone in these, as I could have in my old boots, which I wear laced just a hair too tight, but they were far more suited to slipping stealthily about than my original pair – now under my bed. And as I specialize in stealth and accidents, it seemed the better choice.

Besides: you never know when you need thick boots, to kick in someone's door.

I pointed my toes, like a dancer and admired the way these boots made my feet look a little more delicate.

Vanity, thy name is Sarielle.

Sometimes. Oh well – I'm a _girl _we worry about these things.

--S--

Well, if I thought that M'raaj Dar was going to let things rest after he found out that I was responsible for his episode of running around the Sanctuary with his mouth on fire, I was highly mistaken. However, I was so busy looking for retaliation that I only managed to foist his attempts – inadvertently – onto someone else.

We were having Wrothgarian Chili-Cheese, and Gogron was telling me that I needed to hurry up and finish my hot sauce jungle juice (his words) – because the usual stuff was just too bland.

Now, here's a thing to know, if you already don't. Gogron likes to appear tough –and I think part of that is because of Tel…and he equates being tough with being able to handle things other people have trouble with.

Like…Tel, actually…

Anyway, he poured hot sauce onto his food and I thought nothing of it, until Lucien joined the table, and I saw M'raaj Dar shooting anxious looks at the hot sauce bottle.

Now, I usually add a bit to my chili – I hadn't done so tonight, because Gogron was hogging the bottle, and I realized in the instant M'raaj looked up and we caught each other's eyes that he had messed with it somehow.

And Lucien was cruising headlong for being the target of our little…disagreement.

Oh shit…

"Ah, you don't want that," I reached forward quickly and knocked Lucien's hand gently – I didn't want to implicate M'raaj Dar, simply because I _had_ started it. "That's hot sauce – and the name's an understatement. Euphemism, even…" I said rather cheerfully.

I think Tel and Gogron both realized something was up, because Tel reached over and tried some of Gogron's chili – just a bit –and looked a little stunned. Her eyes flicked from Lucien, to me, then to M'raaj Dar. Then she settled back to watch this play out.

You know, somehow I knew ego would get in the way of common sense. "I think I'll be all right," Lucien said firmly, and I shrugged a little helplessly and shook my head. Glancing at Mr'aaj, he was looking into his chili and as I sat down I stifled a groan. This was going to be…bad.

But funny.

Poor Lucien…he hasn't got a _clue_ what he's in for – the question is, is he trying to impress someone and if so, who? Because he's about to embarrass himself. Now, he didn't seem to notice that the table was getting very quiet, very fast, partly because he was talking to Vicente, who was giving M'raaj and I puzzled, if somewhat stern looks.

He cottoned on a couple seconds too late.

Lucien poured the sauce on as Gogron had done…

"Lucien don't," Vicente started.

Lucien had already taken the bread and scooped…and chomped.

"Ohhh…" I covered my mouth with one hand, and I wasn't the only one to groan softly. M'raaj was flaying his lips, and Antoinetta was still as a statue, her mouth trying not to smile, but everything about her radiating 'ready to run away very fast'.

The color rose so fast in Lucien's face that I readied an ice spell to cool him off if he started to convulse – which seemed likely. Everyone had stopped eating – most of us were biting back attempts not to laugh coupled with looks of horror: because really, it wouldn't have been kind at all to laugh while Lucien was having the roof of his mouth and all his taste buds removed by liquid fire and chili-cheese bread.

M'raaj hid his head in his arms and I could hear him murmuring nonsense, which might actually have been the tongue of his homeland, Elsweyr. Even his _ears_ were trembling.

I got up a little slow from shock and too many conflicting emotions – watching for a moment as Lucien chewed heroically and coughed. He was turning redder, and I retreated to the kitchen and returned with the milk pitcher. Milk is the best way to douse over-spicy food. "Drink it fast," I advised rather diffidently. Indifference, because I was afraid I'd start laughing, and that _would _be unkind.

I bit my lip – still with pride in tact Lucien poured himself a glass with great decorum and drained it.

"Dammit, Lucien just…"I held up a hand and watched the shower of ice crystals waft gently across the table, accompanied by a moderated icy blastoff air, which soothed the red from Lucien's face, but probably wasn't helping the rest of him.

I warned him.

And the looks he was giving me indicated that I was back midway down his shitlist.

--S--

Well, M'raaj and I were both called up on the carpet – I don't know how he found out about M'raaj's involvement. Much as I don't like him, he gets points for being innovative, and I wasn't eager to get the reputation as being one to serve up my own colleagues. Perhaps this was why we were simply both dispatched on particularly stressful missions.

M'raaj was sent off to who knows where, and I was being dispatched to Fort Sutch, to remove a certain warlord from existence. Originally, Vicente said firmly, as Lucien sat, arms crossed, glowering impressively, the mission was going to be his to take care of. But as I obviously had extra time and energy, it would be better served if channeled into more productive activities.

I actually blushed a little under the stern correction. I didn't fuss, I simply addressed Lucien and Vicente both very politely- if not deferentially, because that would make them both suspicious, if I started being timid and diffident – and immediately withdrew to get my things in order.

I closed the door and paused, then smiled.

I wasn't too deep in the shit over this, because the moment Lucien thought I was safely out of earshot, I heard him laugh, and Vicente joined in a moment later.

--S--

An hour later, when I was ready to set out for Fort Sutch, Lucien still was making faces, and I was sure that, despite any humor he might have had about the situation, he _still_ couldn't taste _anything_, and wasn't sure if he even had a tongue anymore. "Here," I said a little ruefully and held out a tumbler.

Lucien scowled at me over the workbench. "I can do this myself," he said carefully, leading me to believe that his lips were bothering him too.

"Lucien, I hate to break it to you…but you probably can't taste anything. And that stuff is meant to be kind of strong…" the understatement of the era, I think, "and it's probably blistered the inside of your mouth, which you can't feel because I think you _might_ just be allergic to the peppers in there," okay, so I was exaggerating a little, "Drink it, it's got aloes. It'll help," I set the tumbler on the table and nudged it towards him.

Lucien gave me a baleful look. Then his mouth twitched. "Does anyone you tell 'don't eat that' ever listen?" he took the tumbler.

He was referencing Andirio, or course.

I smiled. "Nope. But I haven't given up hope," I said. "There's more in the pitcher in the kitchen…"

Lucien nodded. "Get to it," he said, but it wasn't brusque or said as if he were still miffed. In fact, I was fighting the suspicion that now that it was all over, he could chortle about it and not just about the guilty faces of M'raaj and I, called up on the carpet.

Only to himself, or Vicente, of course. It would never do to encourage this kind of behavior, in an assassins' guild. The outside world would lose all respect for us.

--S--

Fort Sutch was located quite a ways from Anvil, though that did not bother me, except for a passing sense of distaste, much as one might feel for finding that the dog had tracked mud all over the rugs, knowing said rugs would now have to be cleaned. I swung north of Anvil, in search of Fort Sutch and went over the instructions.

Vicente had been the original assassin intended for this mission, because he could move very stealthily indeed, and the mission itself required a certain amount of stealth. Which is something I take pride in – after all, I've got a track record for stealth missions.

The target's name was Roderick, and he was something of a warlord – but was also ailing. That was where I came in – Vicente had handed me a bottle that looked like a restorative, a healing potion, or something like one. The reality was that it was a very potent poison – one dose of this would put the ailing warlord out of his misery. I was to swap the poison with the actual restorative, and get myself back out, undetected. It would be a little difficult, as no doubt Roderick would be surrounded by his loyal devotees and soldiers.

And I was sure they, at least, would be vigilant for foul play, if their master lay ailing in his fort. I know that if Lucien was sick, and I mean _really sick_, not sniffles and flu-type sick, there would be a lot of twitchy, nervous assassins prowling around.

--S--

Fort Sutch was labyrinthine – but small, as far as fortresses go. In fact to call it a fort wasn't precisely accurate- it was more like a ruined fort – like the one outside Cheydinhal. It was also jam-packed with Roderick's fanatic followers, and part of me wondered if I was actually doing a bonus-worthy hit without the option of doing things the easy way, because of M'raaj's and my little prank war.

Of course, it spoke volumes about the level of confidence in my skills – that I _could_ do this without getting killed - but still. It was harrowing, and a test of magicka and stealth. Unlike Vicente, I am not naturally stealthy – I have to work at it.

I actually tripped over Roderick, while bumbling about for his medicine cabinet. He was a Redguard, and not totally unattractive –though now he looked pale and rather pasty, even in the flickering torchlight. Rufio had had more stand-up to him than this warlord. I didn't doubt that once he had been a redoubtable fighter.

I also got the feeling – a niggling suspicion that was really none of my concern – that he was being assassinated on the request of one of his own men. There were a couple rather mouthy idiots who would –I could tell – run the cause into the ground once Roderick was gone, if allowed to do so.

These were the two standing guard outside the room where I was sure the medicine cabinet had to be – because they were so lax in their duty. They were sitting to either side of a long hallway, at the end of which was a door, slightly ajar. They had mead in mugs and were swapping stories of a rather distasteful nature.

I was sure they were both exaggerating, and therefore I had little patience, except that I also had a mission, and if this was what it took to keep their little pea-brains occupied…

I digress.

Idiots aside, I slipped into the room – the only one that I, as far as I could tell, had not been in after being here for…well, I wasn't sure how long. More than an hour? Two? I was probably going to wind up camping out tonight, unless I slipped into Anvil and crashed with the Family there –Ocheeva counseled me that I might want to do that, instead of finding an inn.

I like the Anvil crowd – they're a fun-loving bunch, and all too quick to shake off any rumors that might be circulating, when said rumor shows up in person.

Anyway – there was the damned medicine cabinet. I checked the guards –still swapping stories, not paying a mite of attention to their surroundings…good for me, bad for Roderick. I opened the cabinet, and produced the bottle I was supposed to be swapping, and then switched the one that matched it.

I pulled my chameleon spell back over myself – and just in time, for a moment later, as I approached the doorway, I heard a sharp female voice begin to upbraid the two guards. From where I stood, unseen but seeing, the woman gave them the dressing-down of their lives – _my_ ears had started to blister under her tirade, and then she stormed in my direction. Fortunately, the hall was not particularly narrow, so I flattened myself against the wall as she stormed past to slam the door and lock it.

Wow – that was close. I think maybe Lucien's luck is rubbing off on me, because _damn_…

Slipping out of Fort Sutch was easier than slipping in – even if I spent a lot of time wandering around looking for the exit. The corridors twisted and turned like the burrow of a mole, and were just about as orderly. I was sure I passed one or two landmarks three or four times before I finally got out of the fort.

--S--

The air outside was cool, and the sky was just darkening towards twilight when I got out of Fort Sutch and headed for Anvil. I decided that I _would_ flop at the Sanctuary there, rather than camp out.

I was halfway to the Sanctuary when I overheard a pair of…well, I knew them to be shopkeepers' apprentices, walking and chatting. Apparently, there had been a grisly mass-murder here in town, and it had shaken people up.

The ship, _Serpent's Wake_, which has been in and out of Anvil as long as I can remember, was currently docked at the harbor …but all hands were dead. There was some debate, according to the conversation the apprentices had, about what to do with the ship now – but apparently it was making people nervous. According to the story the ship – like the infamous Benrius Manor –was haunted. As if they didn't have enough hauntings in Anvil…

I abandoned my quest for a place to flop for the night and headed for the harbor. It sounds like the sort of mission that Gogron would be sent on – but I knew for a fact that Gogron wasn't on a mission – and even if he was, he couldn't have gotten here before I had.

Ever had a niggling suspicion, didn't follow through on it, and found out later that you should have? Well, I had a niggling sensation just now, and I decided it was better to waste my time on a wild goose chase than to find out later that I should have investigated.

It's a catch twenty-two, but what can you do?

--S--

I even found the perfect cover under which to go aboard, so it didn't look too suspicious.

There was a lady, an Altmer, who had some association with the _Serpent's Wake_ – I didn't ask too closely, and she didn't ask why I wanted to look. Merely said that if I wanted to get aboard, I could do so – provided I found and brought her a crystal ball, that was stowed in the hold.

Well, it was the perfect cover – I had the strong suspicion that we, neither of us, wanted our association with the ship too well-known, so I agreed, and when the guard appeared to tell me to move along, the Altmer told him I was her hireling, and that he should go back to his beat.

I smirked at this, and then headed for the ship.

--Author's notes appended--

I know that the murders aboard the Serpent's Wake occur prior to this point – back before Bellamont was reassigned as Silencer, but for the sake of the story…we're shuffling events. I figure this will be forgivable, as it was never a major plot marker, after all.


	39. Chapter 39

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Serpent's Wake

--

I didn't have to go far before the fetid smell of carrion met my nostrils. It was so overpowering that – had I not smelled it before, and been in worse places - I might have been sick. I forced the hatch to below decks open, and slipped in, landing softly, almost silently in a dark pool of cloth and shadows. I breathed the signs for nighteye and blinked off the strange sensation in my eyes and stood up, drawing Sufferthorn silently.

Ghosts often crop up in places like this – people that die a particularly gruesome or violent death – something that can bind them to our world, so they can't depart. Sometimes they're stubborn, and re-form after you've defeated them…sometimes the defeat is enough to loose their spirits. I was taking no chances – not with rumors about said ghosts running rampant.

Now, it may seem strange that I was drawing a knife to use on a ghost, but the fact is, they are bound to our world, and so can still be harmed. It just takes a powerful weapon to do it, or at least, a specially chosen one, and Sufferthorn was just such a weapon.

I turned about once to make sure that there was nothing behind me – detect life obviously wouldn't help me here. I found the first corpse lying against a wall, blood spatters dark around him, and seeping down his front. I knelt and tipped his head back. It lolled unpleasantly, exposing more clearly the gaping gash across his throat, though I discovered a second, more superficial wound on his chest. As if he'd been attacked to the chest first, then had his throat slit. His eyes were open, in an attitude of horror, glassy and reflective…

I turned, pivoting into a powerful spring and Sufferthorn sunk into the chest region of the ghost that had slipped up behind me – which had been reflected in the dead man's eyes.

Thank goodness for Vicente teaching me to keep my senses attuned!

I pulled Sufferthorn free and struck again, slashing into the cool and faintly slimy-to-the-touch ghostflesh, and watched as its driving force abandoned the ectoplasmic husk. The ectoplasm dropped to the ground and I knelt, setting Sufferthorn in easy reach and produced an empty vial from my belt. Waste not, want not, and ectoplasm –apart from being expensive – is an excellent alchemical reagent.

And we happen to be running a little low back home, seeing is how it's so hard to come by.

I smirked at this and set the full vial back in my belt and picked up Sufferthorn again.

The ship swayed slightly underfoot and groaned creakily as I moved past the first body.

The next room belonged to the captain – he was lying on his bed, throat slit, in some disarray. It looked as though he, at least, had been taken sleeping, or in the process of waking up. I wondered if the man outside the door had had time to shout – or if the captain had simply been drunk. You know how these corsair types can be – look at Tussaud.

This captain's ghost, however, nearly had me by surprise – a smart ghost, who'd have thought it?

I got slammed around a bit, but by and large, was unhurt, except for the bruises. Whatever happened here these ghosts are _angry_ – and stronger than usual for it.

That's another thing they teach you at the Mages' Guild – the more violent the death, the tougher the parting, the stronger the tether to the living world…these things all come into play, when determining the strength of a ghost. Usually, they're waifs in the world a little angry, and easy to dispatch.

These were _very _angry_, _and were looking to let the world know about it, one trespasser aboard the ship at a time. I was reasonably certain they were bound to the confines of the ship in death, just as they had been for so many weeks at a time in life.

I looked around uneasily – all I could smell was blood and death and rotting meat…and the funny, burnt-dust and acidic-tang of ectoplasm. And yet…the way this hit had been carried out…

Well the act that I _call_ a hit and not some random crazy thing…whoever did this is good. He – and I think the killer is a he, because of the fact that he seemed to have come up head-on to some of his opponents, and left very deep gashes – might even be one of ours. I wouldn't be able to inflict these marks, going head-on – I don't have the arm's reach or the brute strength to do it.

I could be beating on a - pardon the joke – dead horse, here…and yet…given the trade manifests, and what I already knew from living in Anvil, the _Serpent's Wake _is a merchant vessel, by and large. They might occasionally put a couple of toes across the line of law, transporting people who didn't want to be noticed…possibly even assassins, on occasion.

In my time with the Brotherhood, I have always been able to divine a reason for a death – why someone would want someone else killed. Sometimes it's glaringly obvious: Baenlin, I had learned, had left everything to his cousin or nephew or something like that –an arrogant little prat, who was now rolling in septims and living large in Bruma.

With Valen Dreth…well, I could see anyone who knew him as wanting him gone. It might even have been related to the crime that had landed him in the Imperial Prison for eleven years – and someone thought that eleven years wasn't nearly enough.

That and he was annoying as scamps.

See? There's a certain amount of sense to be made - because we're not in the business of senseless killings. That's for alley bashers – and I mean that. Gogron, even, has a target, and goes after it –and takes out anything in his way. But there's still sense to be made: one target, and people who made a bad choice, with regards to longevity. See? It's very simple.

But this…this wasn't someone who was killing just for fun, for bizarre kicks. Something just didn't seem _right_. I looked around, examining the ship, as if I expected the answer to leap out at me.

So why? And why do I care so much? It just feels…_important_.

I've heard the others talk from time to time…say that Sithis whispers in their ears and hearts before a kill. I didn't think that this was Sithis - though I've come to accept that there is something…a vast darkness…that we serve, that we venerate.

The Night Mother…she speaks to the Listener only, hence the name…

Hmph. Hunches are hunches until it becomes obvious that they're either good intuition, or boundless paranoia.

I found the hatch that would take me to the next floor, and I was almost overwhelmed – two spectral sailors rushed me, before I'd even got both feet on the floor, and it was only assassin's reflexes – honed subtly by the life I lead when I'm not in the field – that kept me alive. Based on what I've said, the stronger the tether to this world, the more this world affects a ghost –that's why the ultra-violent ones tend to be limited by walls, and affected most strongly by the proper weapons. Silver, for instance. Or Sufferthorn.

To my advantage, this remained true, and I sank to the ground once both ghosts were…disposed of...shaking slightly. My head ached – I had wound up running two shock-spells at once, and had maintained them until the ghosts had had to abandon their ectoplasmic coils, which left me feeling drained and shaky.

Wow…no wonder the Altmer wanted someone else to get her damned crystal ball. Fortune telling is an iffy thing at best – so why bother? If you don't do anything, you wind up messing things up. If you do stuff to change it…you change the outcomes. It's far better, just to stick to scrying and the present or past-oriented stuff. Leave the future to its own devices.

Curse me for volunteering.

_When_ am I going to take Vicente's advice about that to heart? I mean _really _to heart? Because apparently it _still _hasn't _sunk_ _in. _

I irritably got to my feet and hobbled about the room – scowling as I did so.

One man had been killed facing his opponent – or at least, had been facing his opponent at some point. The other seemed to have been taken by surprise…was lying face down when I found him, and sure enough – his throat, too, had been slit, and very deeply, more so than the throat of his companion. That was why I supposed one had been surprised.

When you slit someone's throat- and this is something that I learned from Antoinetta – you come up from behind so you can hold them with one arm, and drag the knife with the other, if you don't want to use the back of the skull, or between the ribs. The throat means they die more of bleeding out than of the actual injury. As a result, the wound goes deep because you're pulling across and towards you.

When you attack from the fore and slash at a throat –aside from the fact that you stand a good chance to miss, you're pushing forward, but without being able to hold your mark still, so the wounds are shallower, and rely more on the tip of the knife than on the cutting edges.

It's also a very messy way to kill a person, as opposed to sticking the knife between the ribs to puncture the diaphragm, or lungs, or even using the soft spot at the back of the skull, as I've been known to do. Don't mistake me they're all messy ways of killing someone…but the throat is probably _the_ messiest, because of the arteries there.

I finally made it down into the hold, fought off a few more ghosts, and found the damned crystal ball. Both men down here had been taken completely unawares…

And that was when it hit me, why this whole thing seemed so odd.

The killer had started down here, had sneaked down here…and worked his way up – hence why more people were surprised on the lower levels than the upper – because he'd have popped up, bloody from previous kills and unexpected, from the previous deck…

I looked up through the ceiling. That was how he'd gotten behind so many of them – he'd come up from behind _and below_ – which meant he'd made an effort to sneak down here in the first place. Which meant he knew who he was killing – this wasn't random…

If this had been my hit, I would have started at the top, and silenced people on my way down, then slipped out, unnoticed. So why take all that time to get down here, unseen, just to kill everyone as you made your way back up? I mean, it did kind of make sense, if you wanted an unimpeded retreat...but if everyone was dead…then there would be no impediment for escape.

I sat down on a crate to think, and idly nudged one of the corpses off a crate close to mine with my foot, watching him slide bonelessly to the ground, his throat yawning open and making me yawn in turn.

No, hanging around corpses like this doesn't…

…bother me.

…

Now that's a thought…but what are the odds? Hanging around with corpses. And these guys were starting to go…so I should be sure to get out of here before the smell clings too closely…

I got to my feet and walked back up through the ship, reenacting the massacre, as if I were the killer myself.

The thought that had struck me had been fleeting – that corpse-smell. And a Dark Brotherhood styled hit with no apparent sanity… the care taken to ensure such a messy way to die…as if he meant them to become ghosts. Or meant them to know who he was…they'd have had time as their lifeblood drained out of them, gushing and pumping.

Only a few had been facedown…but a still. People in their death throes move around.

Which pointed at revenge – and not vicarious revenge, either, as with a contract…but personal revenge. How many loose-cannon types does the Dark Brotherhood have around?

My mind had homed in on our traitor. But this…would support Lucien's theory that he was crazy…not Vicente's that he was smart. Something like this, though…would go more unnoticed by our side than if he had hit another Family member…

…was that what this was? A release of stress and frustration, triggered by something stupid?

What had Lucien said to Antoinetta? _What was it he did to offend you? A little too rough in shoving you out of his way? A few minor insults?_ That had set Antoinetta off, once…so was it that non-plausible?

But there's no proof that this is the work of our traitor, either…just my hunch. My lack of a scapegoat proper. I had no proof, only conjecture, only theory, and that would satisfy no one, though it would undoubtedly interest Vicente or Lucien…

They would be just as quick to point out that my argument was based on a lot of assumption, and not a lot of physical evidence. Which was a bit of a dampener on my moment of detective genius – but one I had to acknowledge. It's late…I'm probably just tired. Still…it sounds very plausible…

I cast detect life faster than I ever had – how could I have been so stupid?

But there was nothing – nothing and no one here but me.

I handed off the crystal ball and half ignored it when the Altmer tried to pay me off. Well, I say 'tried', she actually did, and I headed for the Sanctuary. I should be tired –exhausted, even. First Fort Sutch, now this…but my mind was buzzing.

--S--

"Sister!" the exuberant greeting came from Caridan, an Altmer himself. He hugged me and I hugged him back. "Ugh...you smell of death…" he said his straight and bony nose crinkling.

"I've been aboard the _Serpent's Wake_," I said quietly. "I suppose I do smell like corpse…"

"Well, I take it you'll be with us for a time?" Caridan is Ocheeva's counterpart here – he runs the Sanctuary. He's also rather young, as far as Altmer go – the human equivalent of his mid-twenties, so he gets along fairly well with most of us human-types.

"Only overnight, if there's room for me," I said. "Then I must get back to Cheydinhal."

"Of course, there is _always_ room for you here," Caridan beamed.

The story of the _Serpent's Wake_, and its crew's grisly fate was all over the Sanctuary. Apparently, no one here knew anything about a contract here in town – and certainly none of the Family had stopped by to say hello, or take credit for it.

Well, I didn't visit every Sanctuary in every city in which I operate – but I did find it interesting that no one had heard so much as a breath about a contract for the _Wake_. I brooded and finally turned in, planning to make a very early start the next day…or is it today? It's so late, or early, depending on how you look at it.

--S--

"Hmm, that is unusual –and while it's a shaky premise…It's also not entirely unrealistic," Vicente said, once I had reported to Ocheeva about Roderick, and gone to find him about the _Serpent's Wake_ incident. "And no one knew anything in Anvil?" he asked, frowning, and toying with his pen, twirling it between his long fingers.

I watched the pen's progress, light streaking along its length as it moved. "No one - they were as puzzled as I was. Maybe more." I frowned into my milk. "Do I...sound paranoid, Vee?" I sighed heavily and twitched my braid over my shoulder to toy with the end. It's my nervous habit –some people bite their nails, others flay their lips – I twiddle with the end of my hair.

"What, because he almost killed you once, that you start to see treachery everywhere?" Vicente asked and I nodded. Vicente sighed and considered me thoughtfully, the twirl of the pen slowing as he did, and speeding up again when he actually answered. "No. No, I don't think you're being unrealistic," Vicente said finally. "If this were the third, or even fourth time, I might worry. But as it is not…as I said, it sounds like a fair supposition. But that's all it is, I'm afraid," he added gently.

I nodded. "I thought you'd say that – and I agree, it could be nothing," I sipped my milk and let it slide soothing down my throat, scratchy from talking. "But what if it's not?" I eyed Vicente's expression carefully. He's not telling me something, some conjecture he or Lucien –or even both – have going.

"So what if it's not?" Vicente asked, to my surprised. "Or rather, what can we do, if it's not? You found nothing to hint at our traitor's identity, even if you suspect him," Vicente said. "just a ship full of dead seamen."

Well, that was a fair point, and I nodded. "Still."

"Still," Vicente agreed. "If it is our man, it does seem to hint at some kind of…instability…" Vicente subsided into deep thought.

"What…like…like _gushes_ of crazy?" I asked, scowling.

Vicente laughed. "I suppose so. Consider: you know what it is to hold up pretenses? You maintain the pretense, and maintain it…and eventually you have some kind of…of lapse, I suppose, in which you show your true colors."

"So…he fakes normal while he's in view…and when he's not…he's nuts?" I scowled. I was thinking more like Antoinetta's brand of crazy - somewhat controlled…that was less disturbing than the 'gushes of crazy' theory.

Vicente chuckled at my rather deliberate crude wording, but nodded.

"That's kind of scary, Vee," I said finally.

"It is," Vicente agreed. "Perhaps more than you know."

I didn't argue this – Vicente tends to know more than half this Sanctuary put together, Lucien and I included.


	40. Chapter 40

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

Upon receiving a wonderful critique from Pheonicia, I immediately implemented several suggestions, in an attempt to strengthen my skills and a writer,and further the quality of the storytelling. I don't ask for reviews, but for my repeat readers, it would be appreciated if you'd weigh in your opinions.

1) Does the story's style change drastically?

2) Does the style now emphasize more 'who' than 'tell'?

3) Is it still an easy/enjoyable read?

4) As compared to prior chapters, does it still 'sound' like Sarielle – only more 'though her eyes' rather than 'narrated in passing'?

I would really appreciate hearing your thoughts on the matter – thank you, as always, to my wonderful reviewers.

--

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Intelligence

--

I was summoned to Ocheeva's office a couple days after my return from Anvil, to find her looking quietly expectant, and Vicente looking mildly amused. There was something in the mood, or the air around them, perhaps that immediately screamed 'caution!!', both exclamation points necessary.

It was curious, though: Vicente had said that all assignments would now come through Ocheeva, but he seems to be making quite a few appearances when the actual assignments come. Like he's keeping a close eye on things, but not because of ineptitude.

"We've a job for you – you've been specifically requested to deal with the matter," Vicente said and he sounded very pleased. "I think you'll find this…rather diverting."

_Diverting?_ I blinked, perplexed. Was it usual to be that pleased over a contract? I could understand the 'diverting' part. It was something that would take my mind off this traitor, and the possibility that I had found his latest mess. "What…is it?"

"Intelligence," he handed over a piece of paper, in a very elegant hand that turned out to be Lucien's. It was a little hard to read because it looked a lot like black ribbons twisted into words, without looking girly, if you can imagine. The scribble-like quality to an otherwise steady hand made it look as though he'd been in a hurry, or trying not to laugh when he'd penned it.

Yes, trying not to laugh…that would explain why Vicente was smirking like, that.

"_Intelligence_? Is that some kind of bad joke?" Has Lucien finally lost his marbles? 'Intelligence' he says – it sounds like a joke…but with Lucien's sense of humor…that's not exactly comforting.

Ocheeva chuckled, her tail lashing slightly behind her. "It told you she'd be amused," she rasped, her tongue flickering as she did so.

"What did I tell you about intelligence?" Vicente asked calmly. He was _definitely _enjoying this lapse of composure on my part. He says I make the _funniest_ faces.

I disagree: Gogron makes the funniest faces. Or Lucien, with a mouthful of hot sauce – the dispute with M'raaj has actually been mediated. We're in the midst of a truce that will probably be more than temporary and less than satisfactory – all mediated under the stern direction of Gogron and Telaendril.

'Sari,' Gogron said as he snagged me up so I hung suspended from one of his arms, like a child' toy, or too much laundry, 'I love you, little sister', and he gave a squeeze that nearly broke my ribs, 'but I'm gonna have to put my foot down: leave M'raaj alone. I don't care what he did, or what kind of pork you've got...'

'Beef', came the wincing response and a futile attempt to get him to loosen his grip, 'what kind of beef…'

'Whatever,' squeeze, and my ribs ground together, groaning like overworked and under-oiled hinges 'drop it – right?'

'Only if you drop me…you're gonna bust my ribs up...'

'Oh!' and he dropped me. Like a bad habit. 'Woops.'

Still wincing from that 'woops', as he put it, and I rubbed one side of my ribcage absently as I answered Vicente. "That there's a supreme lack of it in the…oh, _that_…"

The _other _thing he'd said about intelligence.

Wrong kind of intelligence…heheh….

To be more accurate, the comment referred to current Black Hand politics. The actual sentence was 'that there's a supreme lack of intelligence in the Black Hand, and I can only hope they get their heads back on their shoulders'. Lucien excluded, of course. However, as it is Vicente who said it, there's a lot of credibility lent to such an observation. He _would_ know, after all, having been a part of the Black Hand not once, but twice.

"The basis for any clean, well carried out assassination is intelligence. Without intelligence, we're deaf, blind and dumb. Classless ally-bashers, and no guild at all," I said briskly, scanning the scrawl on the paper again.

"Mmm hmm. Read," Vicente dictated after weighing the words and deciding I had gotten the point.

"Okay, so I can't recite it verbatim…that's not a bad thing, is it?" I scowled at the paper, trying to unravel Lucien's handwriting. His penmanship is _way_ better than mine – I write in a very loopy fashion, so much so you can't always tell the difference between A and U, and I, R and E – unless they're capitalized, of course.

The missive dealt with Adamus Phillida – who, if you'll remember – is a thorn in the side of the Brotherhood, public enemy number one. And a prat. But the orders were quite explicit that this was a reconnaissance mission only – no killing.

Which brought forth a frown – are we _usually_ in that line of work? Recon, not killing. Scribbled – or by the standard of the rest of the paper, scribbled – in the top corner margin in red ink (which was probably just whatever had been on hand at the moment) were two words: _Assign Sarielle_. A vote of confidence, if ever I saw one.

I went home about here that I once more displayed a naiveté that hopefully will wither and die before too long. How many times had prior missions relied on information I hadn't gathered? That Baenlin liked to read in his chair. That Dreth's cell faced a supposedly secret escape route...and hadn't there even gotten _key _for said escape route? The outside had been well-scouted.

Nodding, I handed the missive back to Vicente and smiled.

"Don't let Phillida know who you are, or who you're with. He's killed three of our family members, he's not to be trifled with," Ocheeva said firmly, her eyes narrowing, the semi-translucent lids closing upwards, like a true lizard's.

Vicente silently laced his fingers, his mouth thinning, in a way that clearly said he wanted to make quite sure his pupil came back in more or less one piece. "I don't want you taking any…foolish chances, as you did the last time you were anywhere near him."

"Come on, Vee, I asked for _directions_," I said cheerfully. This is a great mission – sure, there's no bloody end to it, but it'll be a nice change of pace. I reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry about me, Vee – I'll keep my head down. The fetcher can't be so underworked that he'd notice just one girl in hundreds."

"Unless she happens to have uncommon eyes – you stand out, Sarielle," Ocheeva put in.

I chuckled. Nothing was going to dent my mood – nothing. "I'll cope. You know how I am: _everyone _likes me. Sometimes it just takes more magicka than others," came the innocuous and not quite serious response.

And this response had the desired effect: it got a smile from both of them – a little rueful perhaps, but valid.

--S--

Adamus Phillida was the most aggravating, self-righteous, thick as a post with nothing more going for him than a reasonably agile mind, and a reasonably large sword strapped across his back man that ever walked the face f Nirn...no – that ever existed in Mundus ! But that should have been expected from public enemy number one. It was just more glaringly obvious now that I was supposed to keep an eye on him.

The fetcher. I could be more profanely articulate – but why waste that kind of effort on him?

I had been sitting in the same tavern as he had for the past half-hour, listening to him gabble at the small flock of not-so-shy serving wenches, and thinking the whole time, '_this_ killed three of the Family?' it seemed incredible to me – and it was only my orders that kept me from making a good and honest attempt on his life, here, tonight.

The man was insufferable, as I've said. I could do away with him _right here_ – he hadn't so much flicked a glance in my direction – probably because I had taken Ocheeva's warning about the green eyes to heart and had used a cantrip to turn them brown – there are few things, apparently, as innocuous as a doe-eyed brunette of quiet demeanor and soft speech. The spell made my eyes feel slightly funny – not quite itchy, but close. Almost like there was something in them…or _on_ them.

Of course, this did a lot to disguise ruthless intellect, or any intellect in general. All it would take it diffuse a bad situation would be a sweet simper and a couple charm spells at the ready. That would be it – end of story, end of trouble.

Ugh…the wine here is _gross…_you'd think they'd have better in the Imperial City…ugh.

Right _now_, however, the point was completely moot. Sitting at a table within earshot, but outside the range of notice by Phillida, with some very nasty wine and a sour taste stuck in my mouth, I was in a good opposition to overhear what was going on, and the conversation needed no help, so I continued to keep my wine company.

Dark shadows know I'm not going to _drink _this swill. It's absolutely disgusting!

Back to Phillida: heavy armor – it looks like some kind of…of _still_ – you know, for the brewing of alcohol? That big-huge sword…it's almost as big as I am – it's a clumsy weapon, being so heavy, he won't be able to use it very quickly – though without doubt he'd be effective with it if he _could_ use it. He's probably not accustomed to needing a second swing – one solid blow would make Gogron think twice about what he was doing – but that's not something an assassin should consider, coming head-on to someone like Phillida.

Reaming him is fun, but that doesn't mean that the reality of the situation should be ignored. And whatever failings he has, he's still killed three of us – maybe more, if we count Family members he's intercepted, who _weren't_ after him specifically…that's not a tally that's been tracked, or at least, not so far as I know.

The wine still tasted gross as it slipped past my lips. – why am I still drinking this?

Mental eyes narrowed, even if my physical eyes were not, it was an effort to keep the thoughtful scowl at bay. It's a dark look, and that would attract questions and attention – not the reason I was here. But that sword…that massive insanely large sword…it's the sort of weapon that relies on brute strength. No finesse -and the wielder will probably be the same. Using a weapon over a long period of time tends to mold the fighter, weapon and warrior become more and more alike. There are stories of soma assassins so horribly clumsy with any weapon aside from their primary that they get chilled when separated from that preferred weapon.

Not an issue here – magicka, blade and bow…balance.

Hn – lack of finesse…Why does _that _not surprise me? Because if he _had been_ possessed of fines, he'd have captured the Family member _alive_, not killed them. It's better that he's severely lacking in finesse – I'd hate to think what his ilk would do to…us. Yes – it's 'us' now.

He'll be retiring soon – he's made two speeches about duty, service, and finally being put out to pasture, and how he hoped that it would make room for the next generation of blah blah blah…

The words sound very pretty, and noble and all the rest, I'm sure…but are wasted on some of us. All this is for the benefit of the crowd, anyway, and for looking all heroic and noble, and being allowed to lap it up. I do believe there's bile in my mouth.

Nope – it's the wine…I shoved the goblet away, and grimaced. Ugh – get this stuff out of arm's reach, or I'll actually drink it all…

We'll, we can't let that perfect pink-tinted basking-in-glory retirement happen…now can we? It would be an insult to the three lives he's sent to Sithis…and those of whom I'm not aware.

Let this Imperial idiot retire? Escape? No. No, I don't think so.

The blood in my very veins shivered and chilled at the thought of Phillida free, Phillida let loose after all the trouble he'd caused us. Fingernails dug into palms as I exerted a lot of restraint not to cook up a plot to kill him right there. No, we'll have to let him know we're right behind him. See if he gets lax after his retirement…yes, that would be poetically perfect. This mission wouldn't matter, wouldn't have been assigned if someone didn't think the information would be useful later. Or sooner – probably sooner. Intelligence is like bread: it gets stale quickly.

That sounds like something Vicente would say.

And this is Tel: _we_ only need to get lucky once…he needs his luck to hold and keep holding, and what was it I told Lucien about luck?

The least of my reasoning for holding onto my temper, and it had settled down as I fumed – was that Lucien had _requested_ _me_, specifically, by name to do this – which showed he trusted me to follow directions perfectly and to the letter. And the letter, at no point, mentioned killing Phillida – so alive he could stay, for the time being. this was merely a mission for observation, for taking notes.

Drawing conclusions – conclusions Lucien, or Ocheeva as was more likely – would want, at the end of the mission.

And at the end of the mission, whoever was taking the report might even ask for those opinions and conclusions that were more subjective in nature. That being the case, I had better have some ready – a good stock ready. These weren't orders, specifically, but I know Lucien, and so read in between the lines, and was fully planning to fulfill this unwritten goal.

It's exhausting to have Lucien pick your brains. He's done it once already and it was exhausting – I'll be happy if I never have to go through it again. It's _utterly_ exhausting – doubly so when you're not feeling your best, though to his credit, he's never browbeaten me for information. That lacks finesse – and finesse is something Lucien aspires to.

It shows in his knife work.

The word 'brotherhood' in conversation made me look up – because Phillida's tone had changed. Any previous comment had made the word sound good…but in this case it was Brotherhood, capital letter and all, and a curse.

Well, what slander and spite are we spewing today, Phillida? Be glad your life's protected by orders…otherwise you might find there are those who take offense when you say 'Brotherhood' and don't smile.

The story was a gloating retelling of the last attempt on his life – it looked as though he was trying to impress the tavern wenches, but that was just surmise. They certainly had their attentions fixed on him, and it looked like he kept checking to make sure they were paying attention.

Facer set in a mask of neutrality, beneath the table my fist balled around my skirts.

This si useful, if frusterating and this – he might give away clues as to how he can be beaten.

It was like being a wolf and watching a sheep, all alone, grazing so innocently...never knowing the danger was near. Never realizing that in a flash of teeth and clamping of jaws it would all be over.

Patience, Sarielle…that's all it is…a little bit of patience…

--S--

I returned after the specified length of time, and reported to Ocheeva and Vicente that I was ready to give a report whenever they were ready to take it. I actually wound up writing it down as well, because Vicente said, Lucien wanted to take this report in person, and he wasn't here just now.

Of course he wasn't, but I didn't say that. I simply sat down and started to scribble out my findings, growing more annoyed and redder in the face as I did so.

Lucien returned within a day or two, and I suspected that somehow, Vicente or Ocheeva had managed to get a hold of him, or leave him a message where he could easily find it, because I was hauled out of the workroom to give my report.

--S--

"Report?" Lucien asked – well, there was a question mark at the end of the words, but his tone was more like 'report.'. Ah, that's just Lucien for you – he very rarely ever really 'asks'. He was sitting behind Vicente's desk – the vampire already out for the evening – looking thoroughly exhausted., though clean-shaven, indicating he'd had time to take care of himself before showing up to take my report.

He shifted and kicked his feet up on the desk and eased the chair back, balancing it on two legs and closed his eyes. This made a very amusing picture, if he was supposed to be an authority figure, because aside from his cavalier treatment of the furniture, he was half-in and half-out of his Speaker's robes – which meant to say he looked like he was wearing a badly-made ankle-length jacket over his armor.

The question – or command, whichever - brought Phillida back to the fore, and with it came a wave of annoyance, distaste, and animosity. I've never met anyone so thoroughly rankling and dislikable – and I live with M'raaj Dar.

I think M'raaj got the scarier of the two warnings, when we were told to knock it off, truth be told. Tel is scary – and really…being Gogron's…sweetheart, let's say…she probably has to be. Either way, she's definitely in charge of that relationship.

It would lower me in Lucien's eyes if I gave way to bad temper during what was supposed to be a 'facts only' statement, and that was not something I wanted. Not the least because temper can be exploited – it makes one hotheaded and then people spew the damndest things – mostly crap, or some derivative. Ill-thought-out (or worse, not thought out at all) argument will never win against Lucien – if you go hoed-to-head with him you'd better have all your shit in one sock…

Or he wins.

It's as simple as that. It gets really irritating, and really frustrating to find him always smirking at you with that 'I win' smirk stamped across his features. it wouldn't be so bad if he were a little less good-looking – but as he's not…

Lucien probably had the written account of the mission lying around somewhere – whether he could _read_ it or not, that was another matter entirely. Bad penmanship and all.

Concentrate, Sari. Start off without insulting the fool…fetcher…_fellow_. Wow, third time's a charm…I took a breath, preparing to speak, but stopped. Various insults were dancing boisterously on the tip of my tongue, longing to be sent spinning into the air to dance in people's ears. I closed my mouth and clenched my teeth.

Dammit.

"Sarielle?" I opened my eyes, not realizing I'd shut them. Lucien was giving me a sympathetic-amused look that indicated quite clearly that I probably looked ready to explode – it certainly felt that way. "You look ready to explode – just say what you must – I can sort out the rest, I think."

"Right…" Another deep breath allowed a reshuffle of my thoughts, before launching into a report punctuated by tirades on the idiot in a question. It felt good to be allowed to rant – particularly as Phillida was such an irritant.

The whole time, Lucien nodded in what were the right places, and posed a few innocuous questions, to guide the flow of discourse in the direction he wanted it to go, and then finally – when I'd ranted and reported every ounce of fact and frustration in my system – he set his chair flat, swung his legs off the desk, pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and inked a pen.

He tapped the pen's nib-less end against his lips thoughtfully, eyes half-closed in thought. "Did you get the date of his retirement?" Lucien asked benignly and began to write. He _does _push too hard on the pen – I thought he might. He's going to punch right through the parchment if he's not careful…

"No…_yes_…three weeks from yesterday," one of the barmaids had asked, the third night of watching, the memory of her high-pitched, giggly-girl voice grating against my ears.

That was the night the pub was so full – where there were lots of repeat customers, so it had been a chameleon spell instead of a minor glamour. It was by then that people started to notice the quiet lady in the corner –and twice Phillida's soldier-boy hangers-on had stopped by to try and chat me up.

My presence _might_ be confused for fascination with a so-called hero…but then again, I tend to overestimate my opponent's intelligence. Vicente's been good about hammering that in so it sticks.

It keeps me three steps ahead.

Of course, that doesn't _work_ on Vee and Lucien…or rather, doesn't work really well. They tend to be four steps or more ahead – despite 'best efforts' and all that. It's okay – sooner or later, I'll catch up. It's a matter of time, great teachers that they are.

"And where's he going, for this well-earned, well-deserved retirement?" Lucien asked, his pleasant tone masking a layer of ice and animosity that I knew was there only because I knew what to look for in his face and tone. It was the same sardonic tone of 'who's the unlucky bastard?'.

Lucien glanced up when he didn't get an answer right away, or within a few moments. A wicked little smirk danced across his lips, and a glint in his eyes that promised trouble for Phillida. "Sarielle?"

Still scowling in deep thought – only half-aware that he had asked a question, then called me by name - I wondered if Lucien was going to be getting his hands dirty here soon. It would make sense to send a Speaker…though they're hardly expendable. Anyone less than a Speaker is expendable. Still –he'd get results. he's good –and that's firsthand knowledge.

I still remember that Dunmer.

A thin smile crept out of hiding – yes, Lucien could take care of our friend Phillida, very well, very easily, if 'easy' is a word that's applicable. Then again, it shows a level of complacency…better not use that word out loud, then…

"Sarielle. His destination?" Lucien prompted again.

"Oh…Leyawiin…but I think he's visiting a cousin or something in Skingrad first. Makes sense, Leyawiin's where he got his start…he was reminiscing," came the off-handed rattle of facts. Phillida had mentioned _that_ most nights – his first real vacation in ten years, or so he'd said.

Lucien actually looked a little surprised and gave me a rare, unguarded smile and laughed. "Good girl."

I scowled at his shoulder.

He ignored this, tapping the nib-less end of his pen against his jaw in a thoughtful way, looking back at his paper.

'Good girl' my foot. Never mind that it had actually sounded like a pat on the back, and not his usual teasing – he's said to too many times with a sort of mocking amusement, or condescending praise. I curled my lip – good girl my ass.

"Now, all good things come in threes…" Lucien mused over his note, ignoring both the dark looks and the grimace. Then he glanced up, his eyes meeting mine. It's a trick of his – he uses his charisma to discourage lying through eye contact. The premise being that it's harder to lie if you look someone in the eye. If that holds true, then it's almost impossible to lie to Lucien, when he's trying to stare you down. Fortunately, there's no reason to lie, so he's wasting his efforts.

Or he just wanted to watch me squirm – in which case, he's going to be very disappointed. "Did he notice you?"

It was my turn to smile. "No, not at all. I as wearing a glamour, or a chameleon spell most nights. I was posing as a Mages' Guild associate, in transit, visiting for a few days before moving along with my business."

It's a great thing to still be able to play that 'Mages' Guild associate' card.

"Excellent – that's all," Lucien smiled pleasantly.

It was unnerving and my expression made him chuckle. He's got something cooking – you can tell just by looking at him.

Can't wait to see what it is. Bet it won't be anything like Gorgon's chili-cheese. or M'raaj's hot sauce…that's got to have more uses than just in practical jokes. It doesn't taste _bad_, if used in moderation. Not what the Khajiit was expecting, I'm sure.

Lucien Lachance: the amazing human dragon.


	41. Chapter 41

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks as always to my reviewers – and to the individuals who weighed in on the last chapter's question. The issue is resolved, and hopefully, it will make the story more enjoyable reading -and now, on with the plot!

--

Chapter Forty: Summitmist Manor

--

I had forgotten in a short time how to wear a proper dress. You know – the kind it takes a maid or a friend to help you wear? That was why I was standing in the barracks, holding the back of my dress closed and ready to scream, scowling blackly at my reflection in the mirror. Dammit – I will _not _be foiled by this damnable dress…though I have to admit, it's certainly got the better of me at the moment.

And then I asked myself: why the hell not?

I yelled in frustration. Screwed my eyes up and shouted, ignoring the way the dark purple cloth slipped from my shoulders, to catch halfway down my arms.

"Sarielle?" Vicente's voice issued from the hallway, echoing slightly on the stone walls, even as the reverberations from my own shout faded. Well – if there's one person I trust to lace this thing up right, I suppose it would be Vicente.

Hoisting the garment back up to my shoulders and holding the back together with one hand, and a hefty handful of the skirts in the other I trotted up to the common room to find Vicente looking mildly puzzled, and a little startled. I sighed helplessly and cocked my head, feeling my expression go 'poor little me'. "Help," I sighed pathetically, eyebrows crinkling together.

All the things I do for a living and I'm going to be defeated by a stupid _dress. _Truly, this is an all-time low, and an extreme embarrassment. Who controls ladies' fashion anyway? I want to strangle him or her with these damn laces.

I could do it, too.

Vicente closed his eyes, trying not to smile at my difficultly, and motioned me to turn around.

I obeyed and pulled my hair, which was only half-braided, over my shoulder so it wouldn't be in his way. This done, I promptly both sucked in my stomach and made sure my posture was arrow-shaft straight – to the point of being uncomfortable. It was obvious I'd done this before, even if I was having difficulty _right now_. Pretty clothes are rarely comfortable, reminding me _why_ I don't wear them as often as I used to. Well, at least I didn't need a corset – and yes, I've worn one before. Whoo – it makes you look good, but it's so damn uncomfortable – like wearing a steel band about your middle. It also gets hard to breathe after a while, and depending on how tight you're laced up, if someone sneaks up on you – a real and legitimate danger around here – yes, you can try to take too deep a breath too quickly and wind up passed out on the floor.

That happened once – that was when I renounced corsets and threw it at the first idiot to make comment about my fashion sense, or rather, the lack thereof. That was also when he was told to find another girl, because if he liked the corset look that much, _he_ ought to wear it for couple of days and then we'd talk about it - hence the throwing of the garment.

A hint, perhaps, of things to come, later in life?

It scarcely matters, I decided and I pulled my shoulder blades together. These days, my standards have changed so much, he'd have never made it into the running. Good luck that we weren't particularly close – it was a show for the neighborhood. I got left alone – being someone's lady –and he got to look good when we went out in public. That was where it stopped.

I continued to grimace, as though my mouth were full of bile, though Vicente couldn't see it.

"Who's the lucky young man?" Vicente asked with mild, almost fatherly interest, giving my neck a brush as if to make sure there were no stray hairs to get tangled. The cool of his hand made me shiver slightly. Being a vampire, Vicente will never have warm hands, like a living person. It's not an unpleasant sensation just…unusual. Even humans with cold hands don't quite imitate the cool of undeath. But he's never clammy and gross – which is a relief.

I giggled darkly. It's nice of him to ask – he knows he doesn't need to worry…but it _is_ nice of him to ask. "There isn't one - this is for a job," I craned my neck and he poked me in the back to get me to quit – it was impeding his progress.

"Ah," Vicente nodded and continued to patiently lace up the back of the dress.

"I'm supposed to be at a dinner party in Skingrad..."I continued, amused by the neutrality in his tone. Vicente would never interfere in a girl's lovelife, unless things got ugly –in which case he'd probably just kill the individual who made on of 'his girls' cry, and make a present of the unfortunate fetcher's ears to her. Or maybe something else…you never know with Vicente. He's such a gentleman himself that it's hard to imagine him putting up with less gentlemanly behavior aimed as the ladies of his family.

And Gogron'd turn a guy to paste if asked. No questions asked. That's about as 'protected' as we girls get – and it's not a stifling, or hindering form of protection. The guys know damn well we can look after ourselves and our affairs. They're just kind enough, generous enough to offer, should we be stuck in an emotional mess. They could make that emotional mess truly messy, for someone else – and aid us in getting past it.

It's very sweet, which is not a word one usually associates with an assassins' guild –but then again, we're still human…more or less.

"Ah," came Vicente's mild response.

"I thought you knew about that," it was only _the_ most coveted assignment on Ocheeva's desk at the moment. Aside from being a party –and people around here like parties (we're planning a big one to accompany the Midyear Festival) – it was a showcase of deception and subtle skill, a high-risk endeavor that made the stomach quiver and toes wiggle in anticipation.

Antoinetta's arm was still broken, but her grounding was less extreme than mine, in that she was allowed to wander around Cheydinhal if she wanted. She and Telaendril were out – doing what I don't know. Shopping, probably, Antoinetta loves to shop. Telaendril had wanted the contract – understandably – and had been disappointed when Ocheeva had assigned it to me.

Not enough to resent me, but maybe…just a little bit.

Speaking of Antoinetta– she only has a week or so left until Vicente said he'd call himself satisfied that the bone was healed. Between time and restorative spells – at which none of us specialize, but of which we can all cast cantrips – her arm was healing very quickly. She was stale bored and reduced to reading Tel's old romance novels, grimacing the whole time.

Vicente took my hand and gave me a twirl, as if we were dancing and I followed through gracefully and smiled, watching my skirts flare out, belling gently in the wake of motion. "How do I look?" I asked beaming.

He brushed imaginary dust off my shoulder. "You'll knock them…dead," he grinned toothily, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

I love Vicente's sense of humor. "You have way too much fun," I grinned back. Vicente _does_ have a lot of fun. "Thanks Vee," I hugged him briefly, and then trotted back to my space in the barracks to finish pulling myself together, waltzing the last few yards.

The mission itself was complicated enough to make up for the fact that I traditionally hate dinner parties. However, as this had a motive past vapid smiles and minor sordid intrigues, I could forego my usual distaste of such affairs. In fact, this might just be the first time I've ever looked forward to this sort of party…because it was not the orthodox sort.

There were five guests – I made six – and we were all to be locked inside a house in Skingrad. Only one of us was supposed to walk out – and according to Ocheeva, if I wanted my bonus, I could not be fingered as the killer. This was where the element of 'fun' came in – to watch the descent into chaos, and suspicion. It would require skill and tact and no amount of playing paper-rock-scissors with Telaendril would change Ocheeva's mind.

That was how Tel and I proposed to decide who should get the contract – since we both wanted it very much, and wanted to keep our friendship as well. It would be far more mature to settle the matter by way of the children's game than by any other.

I lost, incidentally – so I guess it's my luck that Ocheeva makes executive decisions, regardless of how we deal with contentions. At least this way, Tel could be mad at Ocheeva, and not me.

I looked at myself in Tel's floor-length mirror and stopped, the smile fading from my face to be replaced with a thoughtful scowl.

I almost didn't recognize the woman looking back at me. I mean, she had my hair, and my eyes…but she was not the same girl who had left Anvil, running away from family, and a guild to which she didn't truly belong...and under the cloud of death. In fact, it didn't look as if the lady reflected back at me understood the phrase 'run away'.

There's something…proud, to my features now. I've lost some of the roundness of the face. Of course, the fact that I'm wearing a dress is a little unusual…but the color suits me well. I never thought I would look good in dark purple, but I did. This gown was actually the bonus for my last contract, and had innate spells of charm and grace sewn into the very seams, woven into the floral, ribbon-like decorations embroidered about the hems and neck and cuffs. It complimented my preferred school of magic beautifully.

It's just a pain to get into and out of.

I looked at the catlike green eyes and smiled, but the smile was short lived.

_Do I really look like a killer?_

_Only around the eyes. _

You see what you want to see in them...or what _I_ want you to see…

I sighed: I suppose if I sum it up, I'd say 'I've grown up'. Maybe I have. I smiled at my reflection and winked. Well, if this is growing up, it's not as bad as I once thought. I turned to look at myself from various angles. Damn…for a few more curves in the right places…I look better in my leathers.

"Yes, yes, you look stunning," Tel said bemusedly from the door, smiling as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, lamenting. She's heard it often enough.

I turned around and tried not to look self-conscious. "Thanks."

"Not at all – how'd you get the laces done?" Tel asked, beaming innocuously.

I thought so – this was subtle, if petty, revenge for my losing at paper rock scissors, and still being sent on this mission: she knew I'd have trouble getting dressed for this party…and intended to be able to smirk and be all 'oh, you poor dear, let me help you with that' when she got back.

I didn't mind. That's family for you.

"Vicente," I said unblushingly.

Tel nodded as though this made sense. "So…" I pursed my lips and Tel frowned. "You should do something for your face," she said thoughtfully. "You look like a ghost."

I winced - there was truth to this. I glowered at my reflection – she was right. Dark clothes and dark hair made me look like a ghost, or a spirit. "I…never really learned…Mahina always wore too much…" I grunted.

Tel patted her bed. I know it seems a little extreme for me to be putting my face on here, as it is a bit of a ride to Skingrad, but it was part of my cover – that at no point was I to be perceived as anything but the persona I was crafting. A lady, a little helpless, prone to panic and hysterics.

The very opposite of reality…and an opposite that the spells in the gown would help to set in people's minds.

Tel fixed my face –which was very kind of her. She also did it well, I didn't look like a painted whore, or some kind of…of fey creature. I looked human, pretty, even if she over-emphasized the angles in my face.

"There you go," Tel said and turned my face left and right a couple of times, as if checking the way the light hit it, my chin balanced against her fingertips. She held up her hand and I felt magicka tickle my skin. "It'll keep the paint in place, keep it from running if you get sweaty," Tel said.

"Really?" That's a useful cantrip, I suppose...if a little odd. I got carefully to my feet, a little uncomfortable in this dress with its long skirts and petticoats, and looked in the mirror again. This time I smiled genuinely, and watched vividly red lips curl beneath sparkling eyes. I've never really been much for makeup, but Tel had done a lovely job.

Tel wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "See? You'll have them eating out of your hand," she gave me a squeeze and wrinkled her nose at our reflections.

I chuckled. "Charm spells will do that to a person," I grinned a little crookedly.

"Think of me while you're having all the fun," Tel said and we both grinned then mugged at our reflections. I'm glad Tel's not the sort to hold a grudge –we have too much fun, and I'd miss that.

--S--

I arrived in Skingrad the day that the 'party' was supposed to commence, a little later than I would have liked, but that was due more to my own cautious riding than anything else. I slipped down out of the saddle, and decided I much preferred riding practically to riding sidesaddle –as I'd done from Cheydinhal to here.

Don't mistake me – riding sidesaddle isn't as complicated or precarious as some people might have you believe – it simply looks more ladylike when you're in a dress – and it was a necessity, a requisite, to appear very ladylike, cultured and educated – kind of showing my true colors, I suppose, but I digress.

But I won't be the last to point out that it's easier to run a horse at a gallop if you feel very secure in the saddle. And I've never been much of a rider, until just this last year.

Hn – and Shadowmere doesn't suffer a saddle at _all_. How about _that?_ I'd rather walk that ride bareback…

I slipped off the horse and handed him off to the footman who greeted me – both he and the doorman were, I knew, Brothers in the Family, shepherding the sheep until my arrival. The doorman stopped me politely and I handed over my invitation –a lovely thing, purple paper, with gold guilt writing and embellishments.

"Well," the doorman grunted, brushing his shaggy, iron-gray hair out of his eyes, "the last guest finally arrives. I'll tell you what I told all the others. You go in, I lock the door. You don't come out 'til it's over," his words were brusque and it showed that he did _not_ want to be here.

"That sounds agreeable," I smiled, stepping forward towards the door, which was still closed.

We were standing almost shoulder to shoulder, and I felt him press something into my hand, which I immediately slipped up my sleeve as the footman untied my bag from the horse and handed it to me.

As I took it, I listened. "Now I'll tell you what I didn't tell everyone else," the doorman said very softly, in a different tone – a tone of conspiracy. "We have the same Mother, you and I. And she wants you to have this. It's the key to the house. For when you're ready to go."

"Walk always, Brother," I said very softly, shouldering my bag a little more securely.

"I guess someone else has already told you the other details. Kill all the guests then leave, right? Well, you'd better get in there. Time to mingle, off you go," I chuckled at this and stepped back. He opened the door and bowed me in.

With my bag hanging from my shoulder I stepped into the house –Summitmist Manor, according to the contract. A lovely old building that apparently belonged to the Family, in one way or another. It was unclear how that 'one way or another' worked, but it was also more than I felt like questioning. The information of 'how' and 'why' was superfluous at this point.

Apparently each of these five have offended someone, and this someone was now paying them back in full. Great way to do it – one assassin, five hits. I wonder how that calculates out…financially, I mean. It is the hire of one assassin, or is it by the target – and how do you negotiate what a life is worth? Because obviously it has nothing to do with the difficulty the actual assassin has. Maybe…the Speakers can gauge pretty well how tough it'll be? I don't think this is like shopping for eggs: three for a septim, or whatever the going price may be.

I hadn't gotten to the bottom of the few steps that led to the entryway when an old Breton woman swooped- and I mean that – down upon me, smiling graciously, in a too-sweet manor that immediately reminded me of Mahina sucking up to someone.

"Oh, _there_ you are, sweetheart!"

Mark one: Matilde Petit, Breton, from the province of High Rock. Considers herself something of an aristocrat. She was dressed very neatly – but bore the signs of a noblewoman of reduced circumstances – though none of this was in her manner, unless that manner reflected a desire to appear to be better off than she was.

She was a thin woman, and there was nothing in her eyes and face to hint that there was anything _behind_ her eyes and face. No shrewd intelligence or calculating cleverness – just an old woman who was rather spoiled. Or at least, that was what the information I had on her indicated.

"The sixth guest has finally arrived! Well it's about time! Do you know how long we've been waiting? It seems like an age!" She beamed with this rebuke, and went right in on her river of chatter. "Well, whoever invited us here must at least know us, don't you think? In any event, we're all stuck here together, so we might as well get acquainted. The rest of us have already traded introductions. I'm Matilde Petit. The others are Nels the Naughty, Neville, Dovesi Dran and Primo Antonius. Now, who might you be? Please, tell me a little bit about yourself," she chattered happily.

During this babble of chatter I added a mental footnote to her profile: talks too much. I smiled rather wickedly. "I'm an assassin – I'm here to kill you," I said sweetly, knowing that she would not take me seriously – the charms upon the gown wouldn't let her take me seriously –and she was supposed to be a rather silly individual.

Matilde arched her silvered eyebrows and then she laughed, and turned so she could take my by the elbow, patting my hand as she did so. I resisted the urge to pull away and reestablish 'my space'. "Oh! Ahahaha! Oh, you're a funny one! Good, it's lovely that _one_ of us has a sense of humor about all of this. It will make our time here that much more enjoyable. But what's your name, sweetie?" Matilde asked cheerfully.

I resented being called 'sweetie', but kept my composure. It's just a name. Like any other. "Dagmar," I said simply. "Dagmar Eileth," The last name is purely fictitious but I decided to use my first name, so I wouldn't be caught looking around like an idiot if I wasn't paying full attention, and someone used the pseudonym. That would be a dead giveaway that something wasn't right –and you don't frighten the sheep before you must. Sheep stampede – maybe not in the best direction, but they do stampede, following a leader with as little sense as they have themselves.

"Lovely – such a pretty name for such a pretty girl," Matilde smiled. She likes playing the glorious hostess – the grand presiding matriarch. I'll bet she's a sour old thing in private – a gossip.

Mark two: Neville, no last name. Redguard, former member of the Imperial Legion. Considers himself a soldier still, but age is starting to catch up with him.

Mark three: Primo Antonius. Imperial, young rich and bored. Has a tendency for dalliances, a fop.

Mark four: Dovesi Dran. Dunmer, diased against the Imperial Legion. Fled Morrowind to Valenwood with her family.

Mark five: Nels, no last name, goes by 'the Naughty'. Nord. Native of Skyrim. Dislikes the Imperial Legion

Five marks. Five sheep and one wolf.

Dovesi was – as the very small tidbit of information on her failed to mention, around my age, by Dunmer reckon. She was poking about, and trying to look as though she were not. "Look Dovesi, dear!" Matilde said too brightly, "our last guest is here!"

"Hello," Dovesi smiled reservedly. Dovesi's round features gave her an almost doll-like appearance

"Hello," I returned. She didn't look like a fighter –but Dunmer are tough opponents. She'll have an ancestor's ghost she can summon to protect her, if she needs it. So whatever I do, I need to have her distracted, unable to focus enough, so she can't call it. It's not that I'm unskilled at killing ghosts, it's just very loud, and this is supposed to be sneaky, subtle and quiet.

This was about when the others clustered around, and Matilde showed me off a bit. The premise of this party was that there was a chest of gold hidden here, and that the chest also had the key out. What no one but me knew was that the chest was a lie, and that the key was obviously with me.

We all spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, and I went up to the room with the empty bed to put my things away. No one knew how long we would be here, but at this point no one cared. Closing the door, I slipped the key between the mattress and the bedframe – my favorite hiding place for things. Dovesi and I were sharing a room, Nels and Primo another, Neville and Matilde each had their own.

I could see why Neville would be by himself – Nels didn't like the legion, and as for Primo…I rather suspected that he had been the only one in the room originally, and then Nels had moved in. Probably to the young aristocrat's consternation. Nels was a pretty large individual, and I could see the little aristocrat being more than a little intimidated.

Well, that would make Neville easy to pick off or isolate, I thought idly as I cast a detect life spell to make sure no one was heading my way. I stashed the rest of my 'tools' as best I could. I had Sufferthorn, but I was not eager to use it – it would be very hard to hide forever, particularly once people started getting nervous. I slipped it between the headboard and mattress of Dovesi's bed. Better it be found there than with me – and I can make sure I can get to it, if I need it.

I had magicka, I had a garrote, which was easy to hide, and went beneath the dresser. Another place people looking for a chest of gold won't look – said chest would never fit. And they will assume, like most, that by 'chest' one means 'a really big chest', not say, a jewelry box sized chest.

This was not an easy assignment, really – because I intended to fulfill the spirit of the exercise, which was to make this lot suffer before they were released from this life – that was part of the bonus specifications, that I must _not_ be revealed as the killer until the very end.

And it would make great story-telling once I got back home. As I said, this was a highly desired contract. Even Gogron had been interested, though he had not been interested in the cerebral side of things.

I can't imagine why.

The house was equipped already with the necessary equipment and ingredients needed to make fresh poisons – though I had one large phial of poison, which right now was snugly safe in my bodice – the one place _no one_ will be looking, I can _assure_ you. Poison isn't the sort of thing you just leave lying around – even if some of these people probably wouldn't know what it was unless it was labeled.

Ocheeva assured me that there were plenty of things I could use, and I trusted her. I'm not the type to strangle someone with my bare hands. It's loud, it's messy, and I'd rather just use my garrote.

The main task for the first several hours – or indeed, the first day, unless opportunity knocked, was to get to know my marks, to get them to trust me. I wasn't planning to lean too heavily on charm spells just now – that would come later, if people started to get suspicious.

Neville was an intelligent man, whatever his other failings might have been, and I immediately pegged him as the person most dangerous to this operation. It was easy to see that he was watching the rest of us with a sort of mild interest that I recognize as being similar to what I was doing- though I would like to think I was being a little more subtle about it. Once the killings start…if he's not the first…he's going to be hard to get around.

Which leads me to the problem at hand: where to start, and how? That was one of the things that made this mission difficult to complete to the highest standard: where do you start? And where do you stage these deaths? Getting people isolated won't be exactly easy, or so I'm quite convinced.

Well, I started by getting to know my marks, and found out very quickly that there was enough mistrust of each other already that I could play it to my advantage- though I had to be very careful how I asked my questions, lest I arouse suspicion.

I decided that I didn't want to kill Neville first. In fact, it would make things very interesting, to leave him alive for a while, and see how he deals with the situation. It's probably not prudent –and others might even call it inadvisable to do so, but Neville is the closest thing to a wolf – aside from myself, obviously – in this house, and I felt I ought to give him a chance. Not that that chance would spare him, at the end of the day – but still.

Careless? No, not careless.

Daring. Oh yes.

A little risky? Decidedly.

But all the more fun for me. and that was what this mission was about, really: testing intelligence along with one's killing arm. And I intended to live it up – at the very least so that when I got back, I could give Antoinetta a thrilling, gripping account to alleviate the boredom she was suffering so profoundly.

Come to think of it, it's a perfect opportunity to see if I'm learning anything from Vicente – and Lucien.

A cold smile crept across my features as I sat down on the edge of my bed, running one hand over the fluffy cotton blanket, soft beneath my fingers.

Matilde didn't let me alone for very long, but appeared just as I was getting ready to rejoin the 'search' for the gold. "Hello love!" she sounded like Tel, except that I like Tel, and don't mind when she calls me that. "Listen, I've been thinking," I highly doubt that, but I digress. Matilde closed the door behind her and sat down on my bed.

I stood facing her, hands folded, looking politely interested, twiddling with a handful of my skirt. I am so not used to wearing one of these…

"Why don't we form a kind of…of alliance?" Matilde asked, smiling, "If either one of us finds the chest of gold, we split it, fifty-fifty! Then, we may find it more quickly…" she beamed, as though she thought herself truly clever.

I smiled. "That…sounds agreeable to me…" I walked over and sat down beside her, crossing my ankles and refraining from making a show of chewing on my lip –the lipstick would not only come off, but it would probably taste nasty, too. "So what do you think?" I asked. "Where would _you_ hide a trunk of gold?"

"Well, I'd hide it somewhere…well, not a very obvious place. Somewhere hard to get to," Matilde said, as if this were not an obvious answer, but rather, a work of deductive reasoning.

I giggled. "The hardest place to get to here is the _roof_ – but I don't think that's where it is… I mean…" I gestured. The windows were all sealed against being opened. I had noticed that within a few minutes – and it was not something I had been warned about beforehand.

"Well, there's the attic, and the basement…perhaps in one of the big casks in the wine cellar?" Matilde considered.

Hm, she's not as dumb as she looks.

--Author's Notes appended--

I added a few years to Dovesi's age, as cited in-game. This was an issue I had with what was said versus what appearances were. It doesn't really matter, as she's said, but I did want to address that, so no one thought it was a mistake.


	42. Chapter 42

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Forty-One: The Board is Set

--

With Matilde and Neville in their own rooms, my task became more complicated – but I like complications. But it did make things a little easier, in some ways. At any rate, either could be nice and isolated…I still hadn't worked out the order of death, yet, and was keeping my options open.

A storm rolled in within a few hours of my arrival, and I was glad that I had gotten here ahead of it. It was nasty out, and the wind whipped past the corners of the house at a piercing scream. I couldn't have asked for a better mood, though – the storm cast a sort of dark cloud over the company, so much so that most of us only picked at our supper – Matilde and I had cooked, else no one would have eaten at all, I don't doubt.

Several hours in, and still no sign of the treasure, it was immediately apparent that Matilde's and my alliance wasn't the only one that had been formed. Neville still seemed to be very much on his own, but Nels seemed to be taking an interest in Dovesi…though perhaps not the same kind of interest as Primo.

I found Nels standing quite by himself, drinking –as usual, the man is the perfect stereotype of a Nord: big and drunk, not nearly so well-groomed as Elrick – and watching Dovesi, who was poking about down one floor. The dining room – which was on the second story, had an overlook of the living room and entryway down on the first. "She's very pretty, isn't she?" I asked, contriving to sound rather jealous as I approached the railing.

Nels chuckled. "Dovesi's a sweet young lass. She reminds me of someone I knew," he answered.

I turned so I was leaning on the railing. "Who?" I asked politely. Nels looked like he wasn't going to tell me, but then I covered my mouth, as if realizing what 'knew' implied. "Oh…I am sorry, I don't mean to pry…"

"It's all right," Nels said gruffly and looked back over the railing then sighed and sauntered over. "Let me confide something to you, lass. Dovesi over there is _the_ spitting image of my own daughter! Her skin is darker, of course, but that sweet face..." he shook his head, looking back at the Dunmer.

I'd never considered Nels as the sort to be a family man.

"What…was her name?" I asked, feigning shyness.

"Olga," Nels said, his expression going dark with remembered pain. "She…she was killed," his voice caught, "Olga was murdered by bandits…they attacked our home in Skyrim," he said quietly. "Three years ago, this coming Last Seed. We went to the nearby Imperial Legion outpost, but they refused to help us!" Nels took a long draught from his mug, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Keep it in mind, lass, Neville and his kind are scum," he grunted.

Well, that's certainly insightful, and Nels could keep Neville busy…ladies and gentlemen – enter the beginning of a dastardly plan of epic chaotic proportions. It took a lot of effort not to smile. "I am sorry about your daughter," I said quietly, instead, looking away from Nels.

Nels gave a sort of 'hmph' and I withdrew, pretending to look troubled, and pretending to search around until I finally contrived to catch up with Neville. As mentioned, some semblance of a plan was beginning to form, but I wanted to know how Neville felt about Nels first – test the waters a bit – before I committed to fleshing out this plan. No sense wasting the planning stages because one of the main circumstances wound up being a dud. No, no, no, that just shows a lack of skill and preparation.

I have forever to make the first kill – after that is when I have to hustle.

I actually managed to sneak up on Neville, and charm him so he never actually realized what I had done. It was so subtle – and he's probably so un-attuned to the forces magical – that I could have put him under a massively powerful compulsion and he'd never even know it.

Come to think of it, that might be a way to do things – but later, if at all. Compulsions are risky, though, particularly if they falter.

"Excuse me?" I said cheerfully. Neville jumped and I jumped too. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!"

"That's okay…" Neville grinned easily. "Matilde talking your ears off?" he asked sympathetically.

"No…Nels was making me nervous," I said idly, beganing to fiddle with my skirts. I have _got _to change my clothes, I feel so…weird. It might be okay if I was angling to get someone's attention, or if I was at a party…but this is work. And work clothes would be better – and decidedly more comfortable. Crap – Vicente didn't even lace this thing half as tightly as he could have – for which I was grateful – and I still felt uncomfortable, with the seams of the bodice digging into my sides.

Neville gave a 'hmph'. "Nels is a Nord, and like all Nords he's a lawless barbarian with no respect for authority," he announced flatly and with a grimace. "Not the sort of person you'd want to associate with," he added, in what was probably his idea of courteous warning. You know: be careful of bad men, little girl.

He obviously has no idea what kind of 'bad men' I live with – and really, how could he? No, Neville. I like bad men – but you're not to know that.

Oooh…that's a big 'I hate Nels' right there. "Really? I was under the impression that the Fighters' Guild's head was a Nord, and highly respected."

"Half-Nord," Neville corrected. "I've met him – nice enough sort. His mother's an Imperial – they all live down in Leyawiin."

Hm.

I let him finish his tirade on Nords – for tirade it was, and _very_ boring - and then arranged to leave him there. Doesn't like Nords, huh? Well, let's see how the Nord and the Redguard, who are _sure_ to take an immediate suspicion to each other deal with a death.

The fingers will start pointing very soon…

--S--

Dovesi Dran was not as brainless as some people – like Matilde - might have you believe: she was a Dunmer, so I immediately expected intelligence. She was House Dras, if you want to know, and more inclined to be chatty to me after I called Matilde 'that snobby Breton twit'. Dovesi wasn't fond of Matilde, having picked up on Matilde's dislike in her direction. So again, I found myself with people who disliked each other – which could work to my advantage.

However, I had the impression that Nels and Neville's dislike would be the more volatile kind, particularly once stress started to set in. And if they started to brawl, what were Dovesi, Matilde, or Primo going to do about it? Of the four of us, Primo was probably the strongest, seconded by me. Certainly none of us – except me and my magicka – could stop the Nord and the Redguard if they went at it.

"But…I know you're working with her," Dovesi said, indicating she did not quite trust me not to report to Matilde what she, Dovesi, said about her. Dovesi shifted so she was laying on her side, propped up on her elbow across the room.

"Well…" I sighed and shifted on my bed, "I'm too polite…I _thought_ she meant well..." I said this rather doubtfully.

Dovesi chuckled. "You'd be horrible at politics."

I grinned in the dark. "Probably. So – what do you think? About our host, I mean."

"You know, I've been wondering about that too…" Dovesi shifted restlessly.

"What's the matter? Lumpy mattress?" I asked.

"No…it's just…" Dovesi stopped.

I let the silence fill the room. "Dovesi?" I asked after a moment.

Dovesi giggled and got to her feet.

I sat up and a moment later the mattress sank in the darkness, as Dovesi settled beside me. "If you were a 'mer, you'd be close to my age…so I think you'll understand," she said in a quietly cheerful tone."Better than that shriveled-up old Breton, anyway."

"Understand what?" I asked interestedly.

Dovesi grinned and bit her lip and then leaned over. "What about Primo Antonius?"

"What about him? He's not _my_ type…" I giggled. Ugh, no. Not only is he so bland that there isn't enough of anything to make him interesting, he's a fop, and a twit, and if I hang around him for any length of time, I'd be chomping at the bit to slit his throat and put him out of my misery. He likes to brag, and half of what he says is obviously an embroidery to actual events – or just plain wrong.

"Oh good," Dovesi giggled.

"Oh..." I said, as if finally cottoning on. "He's _your_ type, though."

Dovesi tried not to smile and twisted her hands in her lap. "It's pretty obvious that Primo comes from a wealthy family. He would never be interested in a girl like me, I'm afraid."

"Oh, don't give me that," I jostled her gently in the ribs with my elbow. "Look at you! _I'd_ be the one who'd be out of luck…_if_ I was interested in Primo, of course..." I reached up and twiddled my braid.

"Do you like someone, Dagmar?" Dovesi asked with interest.

I shuffled a little, and actually felt a funny feeling settle in my stomach – which I immediately squashed. It's ridiculous…dangerous, even… "Nnnn…no, not at the moment," I said carefully. "But you know…I haven't given up hope."

"Anyone here?" Dovesi asked slyly.

"Ugh, no," I said quickly. "No, I like men suave, sophisticated, and sober."

Dammit. I _do_ know someone like that…

Dovesi stifled a fit of the giggles at this. "Yes, that does seem to rule out almost everyone here."

"Hey, we're friends, right?" I asked and touched her arm. "Sort of…I mean..."

Dovesi nodded.

I leaned over. "If I can…would you like me to drop a couple hints for Primo? About you, I mean a good word, you know?" I offered quietly, as if afraid of being overheard, of or offending her.

"You'd do that?" Dovesi looked shocked.

"Sure. The world could use a little more love in it – don't you think so?"

Dovesi smiled and then giggled again. "Yeah…that'd be good," Dovesi beamed, and then got up. "You know…I think I'll actually get to..." she flinched – and so did I – as a particularly sharp clap of thunder split the air. "On second thought…maybe I won't…" she shivered.

"This storm is ugly…let's see if there's anything for cocoa downstairs. I wonder who else it woke up…" I got up and pulled my dressing gown on over my nightgown, and Dovesi did same.

Unsurprisingly, several of the guests had abandoned sleep due to the storm – or they just wanted a good, solitary, unimpeded, unwatched poke about the house. I found it unbelievable coincidence that the weather would turn bad during this contract…but it was working in my favor.

Dovesi and I abandoned cocoa after finding the whole house awake.

Part of me idly wondered if Sithis could work weather…and even if he could, would it be amusing, and worth the effort to cast such a nasty storm over what was going be a lovely bit of work?

I didn't think so – but then again, what do I know about it?

I cornered Primo in the pantry, poking about behind the lettuces. "Excuse me?" seems to be my most regular greeting these days. I'm starting to sound like a parrot.

Excuse me? Awk. Sari wants a cracker…

"Whoa!" he jumped and slammed his head against the next shelf up. I winced – klutz. "Oh…damn it all," came Primo's muffled voice. He turned and peered at me, then stood up. "What do you want?" he asked a little short-temperedly.

"Oh..."I backed up, feigning startlement. "Well, Dovesi and I were talking…" I noticed the glint in his eyes at her name, as I pretended to trail off, as if unsure, given his rather rude response. Oh yes, he's got Dunmer on the brain. It's very obvious - can you see why he's not my type? He's so easy to read, like an open book…and that would get very boring very quickly.

"About?" he asked, rather pleasantly, suavely even. Oh yes, he wants this answer…like a puppy looking for table scraps. It's a so soppy it's sickening.

"About…well…" his expression grew to a look of outright concentration. "Can I…be frank?" I asked, as though I could not find any delicate way to say things. The fact was that I could…but why waste the effort?

"Of course, Miss Dagmar," Primo smiled winningly.

'Miss' Dagmar my ass.

"Well…" I ducked my head, pretending shyness, as if I was blushing. "Well…she…she noticed you watching her…and she wasn't sure if…well, it's silly, forget I ever said anything…excuse me," I nodded politely, as if too embarrassed to continue and eager to get out of a tight spot, but Primo took hold of my arm and I fought the impulse not to clobber him upside the head.

With his own arm. Heheh…just a joke.

"What did she say?" he asked with interest.

I looked Primo up and down. "Well…she just wanted me to see if I could find out…what you thought about her…you know. She's a little shy, or she'd have come to find out herself."

He smiled, "She's quite beautiful, isn't she? Not exactly high-born, but she possesses a unique elegance…" he waved airily, letting go of my arm to do so.

I smiled. "Then…maybe I could…tell her so? I think it would make her very happy," I asked quietly.

Primo beamed, nodded and then caught my arm again as I turned to leave. "Maybe…maybe you could put in a couple of extra good words for me?" he asked hopefully.

I smiled. "I would _love_ to," I said and patted his hand.

Now let go of my arm.

--S--

Dovesi was in our room, poking about under the beds, and mumbling to herself about 'hide it out in the open'.

"Dovesi!" I crashed to my knees – a little unbalanced and I winced in real discomfort as knee bones met hard floor - beside her and she turned, startled.

"Dagmar you…" she said breathily, clutching her heart with one hand. "You scared…"

"I spoke to Primo," I cut her off and Dovesi fell silent, her breathing was still quick, but her expression was curious, hopeful even. "And guess what? _He likes you back_…" I grinned. "All you two need is…are the right circumstances and everything'll just fall into place!" I waved. Oh, I'm sure it will – damn, I should have brought that love potion Lucien whipped up that one time! It's _still_ sitting in the back of the potions cabinet back in the workroom!

Oh the things you want when you can't get to them! And that'd make things _really _interesting around here!

"Really?" Dovesi actually got very flustered at this. "I do hope Primo and I can be, you know...friends. He's so handsome. And he lives a life I can only dream of. I can make him so happy in so many ways," she chewed gently on her bottom lip.

There it is. I thought there was a little more to her than was showing. I wasn't sure what it might be, but now I know she's not exactly witless.

Love potion or not, it did not take much to get Dovesi so worked up that I could have told her to jump off the roof and Primo'd gallantly catch her at the bottom and she'd do it. "Listen," I leaned forward. "Everyone's still looking for the treasure…but treasure sometimes is more than just gold…right? Go wait in Primo's room and I'll tell him you're there…then you two can chat…or whatever..." I winked at her.

Dovesi blushed, guiltily as though she hadn't wanted me to realize that 'whatever' might just be in the offing. But she grinned as well and hugged me about the neck. "You're the best, Dagmar…but...I mean, it is rather forward," I arched my eyebrows as if to say 'so what?' and she grinned again, biting her lip. "…but I like it! All right then, I'll wait for him! Oh, thank you, thank you!" she swept out of the room with a flurry of dressing gown and nightclothes.

I watched her go, and the smile faded slowly from my face, to be replaced by a more predatory look of concentration and thoughtfulness. I cast detect-life. No one else on this floor.

I got to my feet and looked about, and fetched my garrote. Quietly Sari – very quietly.

I cast chameleon over myself and walked out of the room, readying the silken cord in my hands. The garrote was not a particularly sophisticated one – just a length of very strong, but thin silk, nothing fancy, easily concealable. The harder a person struggles, the easier it is for the cord to slip and slide. Strong as I am, and using the slickness of the silk, I can pull it much tighter than a garrote of another material could go. I wanted to save my knife for later – and I _am_ quite a bit stronger than Dovesi. Stronger than I look, even and especially in the clothes I brought to this party.

I slipped into the room to find her standing nervously – she had dispatched of her dressing gown, I noticed, leaving her in her simple deep purple nightgown. She was watching the storm and seemed to be going over her lines, or trying to straighten out her thoughts. I closed and locked the door almost silently, and then slipped up and planted my hands against her shoulders just long enough for the silence and paralysis spells to take effect.

Dovesi turned at the touch, her expression shocked - I think she actually _felt_ the first spell take – and then her expression went round with shock upon seeing me…but not the 'me' she thought she knew. I was no longer the sweet-tempered young lady who was her friend. I was someone else…something else – a wolf behind human face.

Dovesi froze as the second spell took, and I moved so that I was standing behind her, and slipped the garrote about her throat and pulled as hard and as steadily as I could. This is so much easier when they're not flailing around and trying to scream.

I used detect-life to keep watch, to make sure I'd done the job of killing her properly – it would never do for her to come back around and finger me as an insane killer. No – never. Highly unprofessional.

I hefted her up –she was not very heavy –and threw her across Primo's bed. I knew it was Primo's because it was the only one made, and I took a moment to arrange Dovesi artistically across it, still face down, turning her head so that she seemed to be looking over her shoulder towards the door, glassy eyes still open. Once the paralysis wears off, she'll look a little more normal.

Just as that thought crossed me her rigid posture relaxed, the spell having run its course and ending.

Good. I slipped out, hid the garrote in a new location, and shuffled down to find Primo.

It didn't take much for the bold impetuous youth – I'm being euphemistic - to haul himself away from the promise of treasure to head up to his room. Well, I suppose he had motivation enough.

I continued to pretend to poke about in the kitchen, waiting for the shout, scream, or thud of a body in a dead faint to herald the discovery of the first killing.

The scream was not quite what I expected – then the accompanying thud. A dead faint.

What a wimp.

I – along with everyone else, left off searching and sprinted to see what was the matter.

I screamed, very loud and convincingly, having reached the door just behind Neville (I screamed _right_ in his ear, actually, to my amusement and his consternation). I backed way, face a mask of horror, straight into Matilde, who caught hold of me, and steadied me on my feet and I screamed again, turned and buried my head in her shoulder, shaking and quaking.

Am I putting it on too thick? They don't seem to think so…

She still didn't quite understand what I was screaming about, only that something terrible must have happened. And the list probably was short, and getting shorter.

"Stand back everyone…watch Primo, there..." Neville knelt and checked Primo's pulse.

"Oh, the poor dear..." Matilde breathed, still keeping a tight hold on me. Her claw-like hands were digging into my arms and I was afraid her fingernails would leave punctures in my skin. Of course, if I were really panicking, I wouldn't notice something as trivial as being clawed by Matilde, so I ignored the pain and continued to pretend to approach hysterics.

"He's okay," Neville said, "but…" he swore as he checked Dovesi's pulse. "She's…dead…"

"Dead?" Nels asked angrily.

"Yeah, I said dead!" Neville said loudly, scowling.

--Author's notes appended--

For those who want to know: one of Ailirah's brothers is mentioned in this chapter: the Fighters' Guild director. Her second-oldest brother.


	43. Chapter 43

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Forty-Two: Whodunit?

--

And so it started.

"Dead…" Matilde breathed, shaking slightly, her fingernails now cutting into my arm to the point that I gasped in pretended pain and pulled free of her, rubbing my arms through the sleeves of my nightgown., shaking and craning to look back at Primo.

Matilde did not notice.

"Oh…" I managed to 'pull myself together' and tiptoed in, elbowing past Neville, sniffling as I went. "I…oh…Dovesi…" I exaggerated a stagger, put a wobble in my walk. Looking shell-shocked, I continued to waver forwards, and then reached down as if to straighten her out, make her look a little less dead, but Neville stopped me.

"Don't touch the body…" he warned, quietly and firmly, but gently just the same.

"But…oh…can't I at least close her eyes?" I asked and sniffled, swallowing hard and looking distressedly at Dovesi.

Neville looked guilty and reached over, shutting the Dunmer's glassy gaze.

"Who…who would…who _could_…" I stammered, gazing pleadingly, beseechingly up at him, tears beginning to sparkle in my eyes. I have _always _been able to tear up at will. Neville was, I realized, taller than Lucien, so the effect of me peering up at him would work a little better.

That and Lucien knows _exactly _what I am, and knows not to fall for such a routine because ten to one, I'm faking. See? _Dangerous_. Him…but me too, yeah, but in this case I mean him.

"Did you know she was in here?" Neville asked.

I nodded and looked at Primo. "I…I just…but I _can't_…it's too embarrassing..." I covered my cheeks as if blushing.

"What –what was she doing?" Neville asked, taking hold of my elbow.

"She and Primo were going to...to talk awhile," I said – but it was very obvious that I was being euphemistic, or simply not saying everything that had been going on. "I'd set it up…because they so obviously liked each other…"

Neville gave me a rather skeptical look as though I was being quite silly.

Good – we like silly. Silly helps rule you out.

"How long ago did you leave her up here?" Neville asked practically.

"Not long…I told her Primo wasn't opposed to sitting down for a chat…" and a little more, unless I miss the mark, "and that I'd find him and let him know…which I did!" I said. "I only left her for a minute! How could this have happened?!" I let my voice break and covered my mouth with both hands. "Oh…" I whispered, looking again at the dead Dunmer.

Shit – I'm really over doing this and they are just lapping it up…

"Okay…let's just…let's just keep calm..." Neville said this more to himself than anyone else, but he glanced suspiciously at Nels, who looked absolutely shocked and heartbroken.

Primo started to come around and as Neville grilled him, I sat apparently miserable and shaking on the edge of Nels' bed with Matilde, who had gone oatmeal-pale. We were clinging to each other's arms and one might have thought we were very close –a girl and her grandmother stand-in. It was a little awkward for Primo explaining what had happened – Nels immediately assumed Primo was corrupting Dovesi, which was very funny, even if I couldn't laugh about it. Nels stormed out when it became apparent that I had really been being well-spoken in mixed company.

However, the general state of 'awkward' became even more so when we were all grilled each in turn as to where we had been when the murder was committed. Neville's brain was clicking like a waterwheel in strong current as he looked for inaccuracies, inconsistencies, anything that might point him at the killer.

And Nels' point-blank refusal to cooperate was not helping the Nord's cause…but was helping mine just fine.

"But how was she killed?" Matilde asked finally – this was something Neville had not shared with the rest of us. From where Matilde and I sat, Dovesi looked perfectly fine, albeit dead.

Neville looked over Dovesi and then pulled the neck of her nightgown back. "Strangled," he said quietly, letting the ruffle of her gown fall back into place. "There's bruising everywhere…"

We all looked at each other, and I let my jaw tremble. "But...but she was such a nice girl…" I protested. "Who would…? Who _could_…?"

"I know…that's what worries me," Neville said darkly.

I bit back a pretended sob, surged to my feet and pushed past the stunned Primo to get out of the room and back to my own. I locked the door and stood there, a smile warming my features as I listened to arguments beginning to break out in the other room.

And then there were four.

--S--

Breakfast turned into a very subdued affair – no one laughed, no one chatted. It was obvious that no one had slept well. I had kept myself awake on purpose, so that the appearance of grief would stick.

Matilde rousted me around nine, and I made a show of first not wanting to come out, then once I had, not wanting to stay. I think that –as I was a woman – the men rather expected hysterics and or unreasonable behavior. Matilde seemed glad to have someone to fuss over, and made me drink some very strong tea while she made breakfast. I was sure she was only doing it for some sense of normalcy – something to do with her hands. No one cared about 'treasure' anymore; they just wanted the key, to get out.

Neville was coming into his element – reliving the glory days, even – his dark eyes swept us all with equal suspicion…a pleasing thing. Equal suspicion means I'm not sticking out as the killer – which means that Neville has a one in four chance of coming to the proper conclusion. Well, I say 'equal suspicion'…that's not quite accurate.

Neville's slightly more than equal suspicion is landing squarely on Nels. You can tell, just by the way his eyes crinkle when he looks at the Nord, or when Nels comes up in whispered conversation, and he overhears.

Nels himself didn't look up from the bottom of his tankard of ale. Of all of us, Nels was taking Dovesi's death the hardest – it was like losing his little girl all over again, and that wouldn't make him very kindly disposed to anyone suggesting he had anything to do with it. In fact, should Neville be that tactless, I anticipated a brawl. Wouldn't that be interesting?

Primo remained in a state of pure shock – it was obvious he had never seen a dead body before. He ate rather mechanically, as if it was just something to do, because he didn't know what to do. It looked like he'd take orders most meekly of all here, more because he couldn't think for himself, by now, than because he liked other people in charge. It surprised me how fragile he was turning out.

I was abstaining from the food, and while my stomach rumbled, the some smell of breakfast tickled my nostrils and made it worse. I quelled the impulse. I sat, thin-lipped, staring into the rather shapeless mess that Matilde's overstretched nerves had wrought, imagining it as Antoinetta's garlic soup – totally inappropriate for breakfast.

Neville, seated at the head of the table, jumped into speech without preamble, not looking up at us, toying with his breakfast, dragging a spoon through it, making nonsensical patterns and watching them fill in. "Now, listen – we'll just have to work together. The sooner we find the chest, the sooner we'll have the key, and the sooner we can get the guard in on this. So we split up – Matilde, you and Dagmar take the attic…"

"The _attic_?" Matilde asked sharply, distastefully, her features crinkling.

"Oh, who cares so long as it gets us _out_ of here...what if…what if…" I stammered, looking beseechingly at her.

"Now that's enough, take the attic and stick together," Neville said quellingly. "Primo, take the basement…Nels…"

I didn't listen – the way Neville had it set up was a good one. The two women could watch each other's backs – and one could scream if anything bad happened.

Primo would be by himself in the basement – and Neville, in the kitchen, would see anyone come downstairs…as well as being able to keep an eye on Nels. That was his plan, I decided: to keep himself where he could see who came and went.

Which put a crimp in my plans, because that meant that I had to kill either Primo or Nels next, because killing Matilde, when I was supposed to be watching her back, would be too much of a giveaway. I didn't smile, but I did imagine popping my neck and shoulders, gearing up for a contest of wits.

I have the advantage. I have time. But he's not exactly making this easy for me.

"It's all right," Neville said with a sort of forced cheerfulness. "if we keep vigilant, this psychopath won't be able to hurt anyone else…just keep your eyes peeled."

We all got up and adjourned.

Matilde was not happy about being in the attic. It was dusty, and no place for an old lady, as she complained very loudly.

I pretended to poke about, but without real conviction. My head was turning over possibilities like cards in a card game. I needed the ace. Or even one or more of the face cards. It's just a matter of finding them.

I wanted to take Primo next…so that I could watch Nels and Neville home in on each other, for Nels had begun to watch Neville darkly, from between his bushy eyebrows and the rim of his tankard. He didn't like being told what to do by a legionnaire…even a retired one.

But, Primo was in the basement, as far away from me as he could get. I was not worried about Neville just yet…oh don't mistake me, nervous is a prerequisite for a situation like this, but that was a good thing. It means I'm not being careless.

--S--

By lunchtime I worried that I'd have to take out Neville earlier than I wanted, if I wanted to be out of this house before the week's end. So far, we'd searched the house, but had turned up no keys, no chest, nothing, and it was putting people in a foul temper.

And with Neville continuing to insist that the day so far hadn't been a total loss – that we must have the killer nervous, or pinned down by watchers - did not help him either, or win him any popularity points. In fact, as he'd been looking sidelong at Nels when he'd said it, it only made matters worse, bringing more tension and more temper to the surface.

Nels declared loudly that he wasn't going to mess around anymore – at least, that's what I think he was saying, between drunken slurs in Nordic and the fluent Imperial curses – and parked himself in a chair and began to drink with even more gusto than usual.

But I noticed that despite this gusto, he had a high tolerance for alcohol, because he kept a discreet eye on Neville.

High tolerance or not, if he keeps this up and I won't have to kill him he'll just drink himself to death.

--S--

I caught a break after we'd finished picking at lunch.

Matilde declared she was _exhausted, _from the night before and from poking about in that dusty, musty attic. Neville didn't much like this, but Matilde had a certain steeliness in her gaze that dared him to deny an old woman her rest.

I too, pretended to be tired, though I also protested that I wouldn't sleep a wink, after what happened to poor Dovesi.

Neville and Primo were going to continue the search, Nels was intending to drink the place dry, and it was from there that I decided to work. It's not a bad set of circumstances.

Not a face card or an ace…but sometimes you don't need one to win.

--S--

Dovesi's body had been moved into Matilde's room, and she moved into mine – but that happened after I had taken Sufferthorn from its hiding place and moved it again. Fortunately, Matilde was a sound sleeper, and in a few minutes I slipped out of the room, shutting the door silently, disappearing beneath a chameleon spell.

Primo was standing in Matilde's old room, looking forlornly at the sheet-covered body that was Dovesi. I considered, with Sufferthorn in hand. I walked over to the other bed and unseen pulled the top sheet off it and draped it across my front. With his back to me, and in his current state of mind, the world could have collapsed and Primo would be none the wiser.

If this lot reacted badly to a clean murder…let's see how they react to a messy one.

And if I'm going to do a messy murder, I need to make sure I at least, walk away clean. It only takes a simple cantrip to make a sheet – or anything else - virtually liquid-repellant. At any rate, the blood from Primo wouldn't soak through and get on me.

A further puzzle for Neville.

And hopefully, this will look like something quite beyond the strength and capability of Matilde and Dagmar.

I seized Primo over the mouth and drove Sufferthorn through his back, puncturing diaphragm and lung, the spells inherent to Sufferthorn running their wicked course. He suddenly went heavy, and limp. Dead weight. Just dead.

The sheet caught all the blood, and kept it off me. I dropped him unceremoniously, and then slit his throat with all the force I could muster - I mean I put some _effort _into it, so it would look beyond the strength of a normal lady. Blood sprayed in a fountain-like gush.

I draped the sheet across Primo's body and checked myself – all clean. I sank Sufferthorn into the wood of the floor, confident in my ability to get it back when this affair was over. I checked the room over again – nothing to tie me here?

Good.

I headed back to my room and found Matilde still asleep and stretched out myself, fully dressed, and closed my eyes. My mind continued to work, even as I settled in.

Three blind mice…let's see how they run.

--S--

It was obviously Neville who discovered Primo – and I have to admit, I could make it look very suspicious for both men to be in the corpse's room, if I needed to. No one would want to start bandying words like 'necrophilia', but in a bad situation, people's logic goes straight to shit. The goo between their ears just…turns into syrup.

They panic.

And what do I always say about panic?

"I'm not going to lie to you," Neville said to Matilde and myself. "It's looking bad…"

Matilde was crying, and I appeared to be beyond tears. I looked up at Neville and swallowed hard, forcing my eyes to hold his. "I…we're all going to die...aren't we?"I asked, my voice choked, just above a whisper.

"No, that's not going to happen, look, I've got suspicions…" Neville said bracingly.

And the arrow goes wide. Too wide…he's not even considering that the murders are a little too clever for Nels – who by now is intoxicated and visibly so. He wouldn't be able – wouldn't have the mental resources – to do this…but prejudice is an ugly thing, and it leads logic awry beautifully. And panic sends logic to shit –as I've said.

Maybe that's why this lot is here – they're all prejudiced in one way or another…or all except Primo. I never found out who he had a beef with – only who he liked.

I nodded fatalistically and got to my feet. "Well…if…if it happens it happens..."I said and swallowed hard.

"Oh, don't leave me, sweetie!" Matilde clutched at my arm but I detatched her gently.

"I…I'm sorry…" I shook my head and walked out of the room and halfway down the stairs.

Checking behind me, to see that no one was watching my progress, I threw myself forward with a scream of fear and anguish.

And landed harder than I meant…

--S--

The ceiling of my bedroom – my room at Summitmist – greeted my achy eyes as I awoke on my bed, with only Matilde for company. Sitting up and looking around, I found her dozing quietly on her bed, propped up on pillows as if she had meant to keep awake, but had finally succumbed to sleep. There was an open bottle of wine on the bedside table, and several glasses beside Matilde. If she hadn't been drinking, she'd be at it very soon. I'll bet she's the sort who's violently outspoken about excess, but is one of the first to careen towards it, when things go badly.

I got up on silent feet, ignoring the ache, the swelling lump on the back of my head, and pulled the poison from my bodice and emptied it into her cup and into her bottle and then put the empty vial back. I trusted my ring to keep me aware of anything nasty in my food or drink.

Ugh…my head…I reached back and found the swelling lump and winced as it sent sharp pain jabbing through my head, followed by dull throbbing. Ugh…Wow…that's really tender…note to self: don't fake any accidental trip-and-falls for awhile. I'm liable to get really truly hurt!

I wandered downstairs and found Neville sitting at the dining table, Sufferthorn lying clean and coldly bright before him on a white napkin. He looked up when I staggered slightly, leaning on the wall for support.

My vision filled with black clouds that nearly sent me reeling forward, unable to see, unable to maintain my balance. But I had the wall, and a moment later the darkness cleared. Another note to self: don't tell the others about my 'fall' off the stairs. It's not really working in my favor, here…and it's embarrassing, because I actually got hurt.

Dammit.

"That was some fall – are you all right, now?" he asked gently.

"Mm hmm…" I murmured weakly, and nodded and rubbed the back of my head. I hissed as my fingers found the knot, and I felt my hair slide between the injury and my hand – as if magnified by pain. I shuddered convulsively and moaned softly, it's just a little tender back there…. "Yes, thank you…I don't know what came over me…I'm not usually so clumsy…what is that?" I motioned feebly at the knife.

"Knife that killed Primo. It's okay – it just means the killer doesn't have a proper weapon," This was just for the benefit of the frail young lady before him. After all, our killer strangled the first victim, proving that a traditional weapon as not necessary for a killing. He's free to underestimate me – the more the better. I won't take offense because it's what I want.

I pulled up a chair by his elbow and settled into it, looking at Sufferthorn. It still shone cold as ice, and just as cruel, even in the warm flickering torchlight. I wondered what kind of metal it was made of –it's not true steel, and it's definitely not iron or glass…or even ebony. "Neville…I'm frightened..." I breathed, staring fixatedly at the knife, as if contemplating driving it into my own heart, to spare myself this misery.

Neville reached over and patted my shoulder bracingly. "Don't worry..." he said gently.

"But…you said...and now…" my voice quivered and I shook my head.

"Where's Matilde?" Neville asked quietly.

"Dozing in our room. She...she looked so tired…and I…I didn't have the heart to wake her…should I have…" I gave a gasp, as if just realizing what a foolish thing I had done. Yes – let's pretend the knock to my head really is slowing my thinking down. If it is, I haven't noticed it. And it's beginning to not bother me so much now.

Neville did not panic, just got to his feet, collectedly. "Yes, let's go get her – it's not wise to leave each other alone just now..."

"What about Nels? Should I go…?" let's see just how much his bias, his prejudice, is going to cost him. I struggled to my feet, and Neville helped me, with a hand under my elbow, as if he expected me to totter and fall over.

"No no, don't worry. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself," Neville said with an edge to his tone, then he looked closely at me. "I don't want to frighten you more, Dagmar…but I think…I think it's best if you keep away from Nels…I know you're sort of friendly with him."

"Not really…just a bit of a chat here and there," I responded quietly, leaning helplessly against the hand under my elbow, sagging as with the weight of pain and disorientation and fear. Yes, it does not bother me in the least to ham up being frail. I know it's not true, and Neville is, after all, a sheep. And I rarely care what sheeple think.

I like that…Sheep-people…sheeple.

"All the same - I want you to stay with Matilde…come on," he got up and put Sufferthorn in his belt, and pulled me along with him.

Matilde was still napping.

"Matilde? Matilde," Neville shook her away.

Matilde started."Oh…oh hello dear…" she said to me, "I'm glad you're up…Neville…what's the matter?" her tone trembled as she looked at the two of us, blanching as she did so. "There's not been another..."

"No, nothing like that. It's just not safe to be alone right now…" Neville said soothingly. "Here – have some…" he handed Matilde's cup to her.

"I don't usually…it's such a nasty…" she lied, but without conviction.

"These are bad circumstances, it's all right," Neville assured her, and she nodded gratefully, as he poured a glass for me and held it out. "It'll help," he said as he did so.

Now, I knew what was in there, but Matilde didn't. I made a show of taking and toying with my cup, as though I didn't quite know what to do with it.

Matilde quaffed her wine down and then a second glass rapidly followed. Then she stood up and seized up.

I dropped my goblet with a sharp intake of breath. It hit the ground with a resounding clang, and a splash, but this time I didn't scream, just stared in transfixed horror as the poison went to work. I wasn't the only one: Neville seemed shocked beyond all reason and reckoning that _he_ had handed over poisoned wine and now someone was dying from it…he looked at me once Matilde had collapsed, dead, to the ground.

"Damn," he breathed…he looked up, his dark eyes glittering, jaw set.

I looked at Neville. "What…" I asked timidly.

"Stay here – I'm going to do what I should have done hours ago…" he stormed out and the door banged shut in his wake.

I smiled – this is _better_ than I'd planned, if what I suspected turned out to be true.

I gave Neville space and time, coiling my braid about the back of my head and pinning it in place, retrieving my things in a manner most orderly – the sounds of a scuffle started downstairs, shouts and curses and ranting. I walked slowly down towards the sounds of the scuffle, enjoying this masterstroke – the ace in the deck - leaving my bag hidden on the staircase.

There was a heavy thunk and I turned into the dining room to find it in disarray, furniture smashed and scattered, and in the midst of it all, a panting Neville standing over Nels – who was lying dead on the ground.

The Redguard was breathing heavily, and sweating, Sufferthorn in his hand. He dropped it, and it clattered loud and fell against the ground. Neville, as if unnerved by the sound, took a couple of shocked steps back away from Nels' body, as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd done.

"Neville?" I asked calmly.

"It…it's okay…he's dead…" Neville said, shakily, then he gave a bleak, high-pitched laugh, almost a titter. "One less Nord's something I'd usually cheer about…but…" he shook his head. "Ten years ago, this wouldn't have happened…"

"You did all you could," I said quietly, but not exactly comfortingly. I bent over and picked up Sufferthorn delicately and looked at Neville. It's true – but the game is over, time to pack up the cards, or the pieces and go home.

Neville looked over at me, and smiled. "Thant's kind of you to…say..." he stopped and blinked as if seeing me clearly for the first time.

"But – you're also quite incorrect," I added a little more businesslike. "You've got my compliments, Neville. But the game was never in your favor."

I smacked him with a paralysis spell before he could even ask what I was on about – though I think a glimmer of understanding pierced his mind just before he hit the floor. He was dead within seconds.

I stood up, pulling Sufferthorn free from his chest and gave it a shake to clean it, and walked slowly, strutting almost, to the stairway to get my bag.

I let myself out of Summitmist Manor with the key, and locked up behind myself, then strode through the quiet street towards the West Weald Inn. The storm had passed and the streets of Skingrad were still rain washed and dark. The smell of water and of earth and green growing things was thick in the air, in contrast to the smell of blood and death in the house. I'm so used to both that I sort of ignore them until I have reason to notice: like when I'm looking for a death, or when I'm suddenly out of the proximity of it. It's odd, but whatever works.

I want a bath…and some supper. Yes, a well-earned evening of rest and relaxation. Maybe with candles, or dim mage-lights. I reached back and felt my head – it's embarrassing that the worst injury I sustained was due to my own miscalculations.


	44. Chapter 44

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Forty-Three: Deepscorn Hollow

--

I looked up as there came a knock on my door, just prior to my leaving the West Weald Inn to head back to Cheydinhal.

"Come in," I called confidently. "Oh…Mathieu…" I blinked. I was surprised to see him, needless to say. "I didn't realize anyone knew I was staying here."

"Ah, you'll forgive me for calling so early. I'm a guest here, myself and saw you check in last night, but you looked exhausted, so I thought I ought to wait," Mathieu smiled pleasantly. He looked very normal –still remarkably unremarkable, though a little tired…strained, even. But I had gotten the impression he was quite a bit higher up than I was, so I also suppose he was in more of a position to be run ragged.

Again, he was wearing too much cologne and it was already starting to give me a headache. We've got to have a talk with this boy about moderation…how does he sneak up on anything?

"Not at all," I smiled, "have you had breakfast? I was about to leave, but would happily make exception for a beloved brother," I walked up to Mathieu who smiled and took my hands and bowed his head slightly - in the manner of family too estranged to hug, but too close to simply not give some sort of greeting.

That was when I caught it and my stomach clenched, my extremities went cold. Beneath the choking cologne was a smell I was all too familiar with. A sickening, fetid smell that clung to the skin.

Time froze for a second as realization, cold as a blast of Bruma air hit me. I pulled back when allowed and smiled, but the smile was a mask. You son of a bitch…

"I'm afraid I cannot," Mathieu said cheerfully. "I've business to attend…and I'm afraid that if I thought Speaker Lachance was exacting…" he shook his head. "Then my new Sanctuary Master is even more so…"

"I didn't think that was possible," I smiled. "Speaker Lachance is a perfectionist."

"Neither did I," Mathieu admitted.

"Well, then, I had better not detain you. I am glad that you stopped by – I didn't get much of a chance to chat, the last time you visited. I hope to have opportunity in future," my mouth smiled, my eyes remained soft and pleasant in their gaze. But beneath my breastbone dislike and distaste blossomed sickly cold, sending feelers down to the pit of my stomach. If it weren't unwise to do so, I have retrieved Sufferthorn and put it right between his treacherous ribs.

I know that smell, that stench and reek that hangs beneath his cologne. The scent that accompanied the attack…and that is not something I'll forget. Ever. Yawning throats, slashed in homicidal, insane ecstasy flashed before my eyes. The deaths…the mistrust…this traitorous canker on the soul of the Family…it would be so easy to purge him, to purge life _from_ him…and yet…would anyone listen?

The others…even my Sanctuary mates…they like Bellamont. Love him, as a Brother, dearest family…I need Vicente…or Lucien…fast.

Mathieu bowed his head and I did the same, the motion surprisingly natural, despite the fact that my first instinct was to kill him right here and now, and sort out the details later.

That's what separates me from the common killer – mind over matter. Even when it hurts…Vicente will approve, but that's no comfort. Because treachery is walking out my front door and I can't stop it, can't contain it without causing…causing who knows what kind of damage?

"I hope so as well. Walk always," he smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth.

"Walk always, Brother," I lied with face and eyes and words…I watched him go.

The door shut and my smile disappeared like water slipping from a window, to be replaced by a cold stare that would have frozen an onlooker on the spot. My hands, already cold, began to tremble and my right arm ached palm to elbow in remembered pain.

Beneath the cologne that still choked the air of my room…the smell of death. The clinging reek of carrion. That explains why he wears so much cologne. It's not because he has no sense…it's because he's using it as a mask. I walked over to my window and looked out of it, watched Bellamont go.

He saw me watching and waved politely from the street. I raised a hand and smiled- unsure if he could see my expression through the somewhat rippled glass, but erring towards caution. I watched him walk away and leaned on the sill, glowering at the smoothly-sanded wood, letting my hands slide over the satiny finish.

This is…an unusual turn of events. Do Vicente and Lucien know?

Cold calm settled like real, physical weight across my shoulders. I venture to think that they do…or at least, suspect, have educated guesses. So why not tell me earlier, when we discussed 'everything'?

Easy: I was still a bit of an unknown quality. They couldn't count on the fact that I would show restraint if our paths crossed, couldn't count on my self-control to keep word and deed pleasant, and not alert the rat that he was being hunted. I suppose snapping at Banus like I had had damaged my credibility a little – unsurprising reaction or not.

Or they truly –and I very much doubt this – did not feel that their surmise was enough to pin any weight on. No – if they suspect, they'll go from there. Because you can bet there will be more than just idle surmise attached to that suspicion.

I gathered my things and rented a horse. I was eager to get back home, and eager to find out what to do about Bellamont. They wanted evidence…I now had it. It was fleeting. It was shaky…but it was evidence.

--S--

I reached home in record time and went to find Vicente before going to find Ocheeva. A breach of protocol I know, but this matter of treachery is far more pressing than a perfectly executed contract. I pounded on Vicente's office door. It was just after dusk, so he'd be up.

"Oh…dammit! What?" he called, sounding irritated. I wasn't exactly being polite – I was pounding the door like I had an issue to take up with him, or as if the door had done me a personal wrong.

Which I did – have an issue, I mean - but not quite like that.

I pushed the door open, and Vicente blinked in surprise. "Welcome back...what did my door ever do to you?" he asked.

"It's Bellamont, isn't it?" I asked sharply, shutting the door firmly behind me and crossing my arms. I watched his expression for any telltale signs to what he was thinking.

Vicente looked like he was about to ask me what the _hell_ I was rattling on about but stopped, as meaning sunk in. He closed his mouth. "How..." he started, looking genuinely surprised.

I was not to be deterred until I had an answer. "That's who you suspect, isn't it? Mathieu Bellamont. The others like him, so you don't want to get their hackles up by sharing the suspicion. You didn't tell me, lest I pull the same stunt with him as I did with Banus…and warn him that he was suspected, drive him underground." It was not a question – just cold certainty.

Vicente got up and looked at me for a very long moment before answering. "How did you come to that conclusion?" he asked very quietly indeed, walking over to the cabinet at the back of his office and fetching a bottle of wine and two glasses. He uncorked the bottle, his mouth set in a thin line, somewhere between calm and disapproval, and deliberately poured out a measure of the drink for each of us, and then held up one glass for me.

I took it delicately, but did not drink it, continuing instead to eye Vicente. The vampire wasn't giving anything away and I felt my lips thin.

Vicente sank back into is chair and downed half the glass, as though I had truly rattled him – or maybe that was just my gong-ho demeanor.

"We ran into each other in Skingrad, before I left to come home," I said calmly, still keeping a close eye on Vicente's face, hoping he'd give something away. Of course, by now he knew what I was doing, so I didn't expect much, but still. "It's that nasty-ass cologne of his. Under the smelly mess…is a smell likes raw, rancid meat. The same smell I encountered in the _Serpent's Wake_…the same smell I encountered in the Oblivion Towers…I almost missed it – he uses the cologne to mask the rotting-flesh smell. The same smell that I caught before my horse bolted, that time our traitor nearly killed me," I added darkly.

Vicente nodded very slowly. "You're right," he said carefully, looking at me over the rim of his glass. "We've…suspected him for some time. I told Lucien you wouldn't stay in the dark forever – for by blind bumbling or ray of light, you'd find the truth eventually."

"Then why aren't we doing anything…?" I asked, ignoring the lovely turn of phrase. It told me, that he was trying to mask his feelings by a flurry of pretty words, and nostalgic turn of phrase. He distracts you with poetry, basically.

"Oh, do use your common sense," Vicente said, a little shortly, then massaged the bridge of his nose. "Sit," he commanded, pointing to the other chair.

I 'sat' obediently, resting my arms on the arm rests, and watching the wine move as I twirled my goblet slightly. The red liquid caught the light beautifully.

"We do nothing because we can _prove_ nothing. Suffice to say that Bellamont is in a…a position where he will be watched – carefully," Vicente said firmly, but calmly, watching the light sparkling on my wine as I continued to twirl the cup thoughtfully.

"Vicente…" I began, a little more moderately.

"We have no proof – and we've had this talk before," Vicente said, though without heat, without anger. "I know your theories, they support my own...but that is _all _they are! It rankles, it _irritates_ – why do you think Lucien's mood has been so poor the past few weeks?" Vicente's voice began to take on traces of anger and frustration, and I glanced up. His eyes had begun to glow like embers in their sockets. "Surely you didn't think it was _all_ overwork? He's been _looking_ for clues, for something, _anything_ he can use. But our friend Bellamont – insane or otherwise - is very clever. I don't think I need to remind you of that," there was a bite to Vicente's voice that betrayed his frustration. He was not angry with me, I just happened to be convenient to rant to.

I shook my head, not stung by words or tone. "No, you're right," I agreed and sipped my wine composedly, letting the sweet vintage hold in my mouth, so I could savor the flavor for a moment before swallowing it. "As ever, you've a wonderful taste in wine, Vicente," I said eyes half-closed, enjoying the taste and the smooth sensation of the beverage.

"Thank you," Vicente said a little shortly. I smiled – recognizing a trick, are we? "Does he know that you know?" Vicente asked.

I opened one eye all the way and looked at him. He looked caught between being amused and being rankled – more towards rankled. "I don't think so – but I could be wrong," I shrugged and considered over another sip of wine –this is a sipping wine, decidedly. If you quaff it, or guzzle it, you lose the flavor and the little nuances therein…mmm…I need to find out the vintner and the vintage, lay in a supply. This could easily be romancing type wine… "No, I don't think he does," I finally declared.

"Good," Vicente leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. "You're sure about him, then?"

"If 'sure' I can call it…yes. I've smelled enough rotting corpses since I joined the Family to know the smell, even masked by something else. And he knows he's got that odor. The question is how did he get that way?" I asked and sighed, tapping an index finger against my lower lip, thoughtfully.

"I don't know," Vicente shook his head.

"I see…that's why you thought he was clever and Lucien thought he was crazy," I mused, scowling. "Crazy enough to stay where he could pick up the scent, smart enough to work around it."

Vicente nodded.

"Where is he supposed to be?" It was frustrating to know - or to be reasonably sure – that we had the traitor figured, and not be able to do anything. Just as frustrating now as it had been back in Skingrad…more so even.

I was sure that if Lucien were to bring up the matter, the Hand wouldn't listen to him – there's too much enmity, if half of what I infer from conversation is true. They'll think Lucien was just trying to shift blame to the nearest convenient scapegoat. And I'll bet Bellamont's an efficient assassin, not to mention high enough up in the hierarchy that he'll have some protection. And he's well mannered, very likable and charming, and without some of the sand-paper like personality and political double-talk that define Lucien. Even I had been rather surprised and pleased by his manners, right up until I recognized what the cologne hid. I won't lie.

"Up in Bruma, now," Vicente answered flatly. "And I hope I need scarcely tell you, that you are, on no account, to go looking for him. You leave that be, for the time being," Vicente said severely.

I nodded, again disregarding his tone, in favor of the actual words – is this how Lucien feels all the time? Well, I wouldn't have gone after Bellamont arbitrarily, even if Vicente hadn't told me not to. One wrong move and there would be trouble. And that trouble would land squarely on me, and then I'd be in no position to help anyone – and my credibility would be blown.

If I lived through the repercussions.

I sighed. "I have to report to Ocheeva about Summitmist."

"How did that go, by the way?" Vicente asked politely.

"I only wore the stupid dress my first day," I answered, and sipped at my wine again. "I had an easier one to wear in my bag."

"Ah," Vicente nodded.

We settled down and abandoned the talk of traitors and conspiracies for awhile, in favor of lighter conversation –though we were both meticulously minding our manners and keeping even, friendly tones.

The fact that I'd manipulated one guest to kill another almost put the vampire in tears of laughter. Even I was genuinely grinning. It was much-needed humor, after the gravity of our previous discussion.

--S--

It was a day or two later that I received my first bit of courier mail. I was surprised when I greeted the courier and asked for whom he was looking. "Eliminator Sarielle of Cheydinhal, private correspondence," he said and held out the envelope. It was not black, but rather, mundanely white.

I reached forward and touched the seal – one I did not recognize. It immediately melted off, recognizing the touch of the intended recipient – I stopped asking 'how' questions a long time ago – and the courier handed it over, and left.

I frowned. It was a note that had stains of blood upon it. I retreated to the barracks to read it.

Antoinetta was napping, and Tel…I don't even _know_ where Tel is. Her orders changed shortly after I told Vicente my suspicions about Bellamont – she's hardly ever here these days, and I really miss her…

--S--

_I have watched you from afar and feel it is time to make myself known. I am Greywyn, the last of the Crimson Scars. Once a powerful force rivaling the Dark Brotherhood itself, the Scars were the true followers of Sithis and the masters of deception. I will be departing this world soon as the cold embrace of the Night Lord calls to me. All I have I leave as a legacy to you. My home, Deepscorn Hollow, will be your new haven. Use the map on the reverse of this note to find it. All that lay within is yours to do with as you please. I have but one request in return... further the ways of shadow and honor Sithis with the darkest of deeds. Make the virtuous pay for their blasphemy with their lifeblood staining your blade. May Sithis guide you. _

_Greywyn_.

--S--

I scowled – that's nothing I'd ever heard about…but I did wonder 'why me?'. Nevertheless, it can't hurt to take a look, and see what this is about. I've never heard of the Crimson Scars, nor of this 'Greywyn', though if he was on his deathbed I wonder how he got to be aware of me in the first place.

It was not hard to get permission to go off – Ocheeva had nothing for me to do, and had no opposition to letting me wander off. I didn't tell her the nature of my errand, still not entirely sure that this wasn't some kind of hoax, prank or even…

Well, didn't want to complete that last paranoid thought. It didn't seem like a good idea to give it voice.

--S--

Deepscorn Hollow was ingeniously hidden – entrance was granted via an underwater door that took me more than an hour to find, hidden in a hollow log.

However, if I expected to find Greywyn, I was disappointed. He was not home, and I rather suspect, no longer among the living. The whole of the Hollow was covered in a thick layer of dust giving it the air of a place neglected for far too long – I didn't want to walk too far in, at first, lest I stir up enough dust to cause my nose to bleed – I've had that happen before, it's unpleasant in the extreme.

I scowled at the note as I stood, dripping, in the entryway. I took off my cloak and walked forward carefully, the dust caking up on my boots. The cavern that faced the entryway had a clever window in the…roof...ceiling. It's invisible from the outside, but from where I now stood, gazing up, light streamed in from above, casting a circle of clear white light over a circular bed of tangled vines and dry, stunted plants. As if someone had once had a garden that flourished down here.

It was just before this garden, on a stool, that I found my second set of answers. The book was large and nondescript, but fairly heavy. It was not spelled or warded, and was written in a very neat hand. I squinted slightly – holding it in the wash of sunlight from topside.

I frowned as I read. There is something _so_ not right here…

--S--

_Turdas 18 Rain's Hand 3E 421_

_Sithis speaks to me. He does not use words but I can hear his voice. Echoes of darkness spring from his lips and tell me what I must do. The Dark Brotherhood must be purged of its clean-blooded vermin and a new order must take the reins. The time is nigh for the vampire to claim his rightful place as the true Hands of Sithis. I have secured the help of many of my kin, and soon, we shall spread like a cold fog through the ranks and make the group our own. Soon, Sithis will give the sign, the time will be right, and the Crimson Scars will strike!_

_Loredas 27 Rain's Hand 3E 421_

_We are betrayed! That cur, Silarian, has made true our plans to the Fingers, and we have been discovered! The Brotherhood struck as we slept, not even giving the Scars a chance to fight back. Using their silver weapons, they pierced the heart of many of my brothers... The screams I could hear as they turned to dust still echo within my mind. I was able to dispatch two of the purebloods that fell upon me, and before they could send more, I made good my escape. I must find a place to hide... to recover from this blow. I will make my way south to Deepscorn Hollow, my old hideaway from when I was but a novice. There I will make my dark plans and we shall see who Sithis truly favors!_

_  
Tirdas 21 Second Seed 3E 421_

_It's been nearly a month, and yet none of my brethren has returned to the fold. What puzzles me is why I have not heard from my lord. Sithis hasn't spoken to me since that dark night. What have I done to displease him? I have slain many since then, and poured their lifeblood on his altar, but still he remains silent. As I ponder this, I turn my attentions to the lair. Deepscorn Hollow will rise as the new headquarters of the Crimson Scars. But it must be prepared. So much to do..._

_  
Loredas 1 Mid-Year 3E 421_

_The lair has improved much. I was fortunate to find Rowley Eardwulf outside of the Imperial City, another Scar who had escaped the night of slaughter. He now does his dark work acquiring the tools I need to bring Deepscorn Hollow back to its former glory. I must remember him in the future should I ever need these items again._

_Middas 17 Sun's Height 3E 421_

_All along, I was mistaken. All along, I was the blight upon Sithis and his dark name. Tonight, he spoke to me and again, and I learned of his displeasure. Again, I heard no words, but I knew the meaning. I was meant to take blood, to spill blood... but never to taste blood. My sanguine ways have offended my lord! I must cleanse myself of this filth. I must find a way…_

_Tirdas 30 Sun's Height 3E 421_

_I have found it! My lord will be pleased! My answer lies with the Purgeblood Salts. Yes! I will bathe in these tonight and free myself from my old ways! Hail Sithis! Dark ruler, soon I will be your only true disciple!_

--S--

I scowled at the book. Fanatic…crazy fanatic. There's a what…?

…Twelve year break between the last entry and now? But if this place has been so neglected…how did Greywyn send the message? Inconsistency abounds...and that makes me nervous.

A chill passed over me, and I set the journal down hastily and stepped back from it, my hand going instinctively for Sufferthorn's hilt. Unless…

Unless it wasn't Greywyn who sent it in the first place…that would explain how it came by a Brotherhood Courier…but…from who, then? And why me? And how had it passed from this splintered faction of the Family _back_ to the Family in the first place? Because it was obvious Greywyn had some issues with the Family, as we were.

Perhaps the fact that most of us have a pulse.

There were no real answers – and so I began to poke around, ever mindful of the dust.

Deepscorn Hollow was built like an underground chapel…more so than I realized at first, for way deep down, I found a massive shrine to Sithis, which scared me, and understandably so. I was not expecting it. This, at least, seemed to have been spared much dust-collecting, though I did not get the impression that it was being cared for – merely warded against dust.

The statue of the shrouded skeleton was enormous, and filled the vault, bony arms reached out above its head as if to embrace the world above and pull it into darkness. I stumbled back when I reached face-level with it and stayed there, sprawling on the stairs, looking into the skull-like face that Sithis had been given, shaking slightly. The black eye-sockets, devoid of any fire, light or other intelligence, any suggestion thereof, magical or otherwise. It was like being sucked into deep waters, weighed down by too many clothes, or by another heavy burden…drowning.

_How does one best describe our Dread Father? Imagine a perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow. _That _is Sithis._

My skin – and I mean _every _inch of it, prickled with gooseflesh and I shuddered again.

It certainly was, and that realization finally sunk in, and settled somewhere beneath my breastbone, like a cold jewel that would hide forever beneath the skin…present, but invisible. A cold talisman, and I knew, here, that I truly wished to be counted among the dark legion of followers, walking – as we say – in the shadow of Sithis. The shadow of death.

But I still didn't feel like a zealot, blind, deaf, fettered. I still felt like myself…just with a cold certainty that what I had been leaning toward believing was…right. Real, even. It was not a question that I would ever be asked, but the answer to that silent, stillborn question was…yes.

Child of Sithis. One of many.

I recollected my wits and got slowly to my feet, still eyeing the effigy, waiting for it to spring to life, or go 'boo!' or something, it was that skillfully made. Before I would have had to force myself down, to pass beneath the empty gaze of the effigy, but now I only found it moderately difficult, as I kept looking up, rather than down at the stairs. At the bottom of the stair stood an alter, and behind the alter was a statue of a woman, and she was actually holding the altar, like a plate. Beneath the altar were five children, aiding the lady in holding her burden.

It's very obvious.

I reached forward and touched the edge of the cool stone and felt my goosebumps reappear. Upon the back edge of the alter, near the lady, was a stone bowl, one piece with the altar itself. It was full of water, and in it floated a half-dozen blossoms of nightshade. I could feel the magicka here, and knew that as long as those blossoms rested in the basin that they would remain fresh. Or would, at any rate, age very slowly indeed. Cold seeped into my very bones, but a moment later it was gone.

Nothing untoward happened, so I went back upstairs and found that whatever I had done, had reactivated some old magicka in this place, because a half-dozen dark guardians were dragging themselves towards the entrance to the shrine, stopping well short of it, and holding up their right hands, as if pledging fealty.

I looked – they were well-animated, the blue lights in their eye sockets riveted upon me. I raised my right hand. "Walk always in the shadow of Sithis," I said automatically.

They clattered their teeth and planted their hands over where their hearts ought to be, and waited, as if expecting orders. "Ah…see what you can do about the dust in here…except you, I want to talk to you," I pointed to the guardian on the end.

The others shuffled off, leaving the one I had requested standing at attention, waiting motionlessly for me to pose my questions.

--Author's notes appended--

I apologize to those of you reading, who have the Vile Lair expansion, and already know all about it. I include Greywyn's note and journal or those who do not have the EP, and would otherwise be a little confused.

Also –the Night Mother (and it doesn't look anything like the Lucky Old Lady) and the original Black Hand appear beneath the Sithis effigy, because Greywyn would have been a proper Brother in the Brotherhood at the time of his novitiate – and would still have pledged fealty to the Night Mother, as well as Sithis himself.


	45. Chapter 45

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Forty-Four: Orders Issued, Details Pending

--

The dark guardian I was questioning – whom I immediately named Claude – was not much help. I managed to gather from him that Greywyn had laid the magicka that animated the dark guardians dormant, and that he had had a sort of…helper…at one point, but Claude didn't know where that helper was, or if he was even alive. Or undead…either way.

More questions than answers.

The dark guardians were very efficient in their work –and within several hours the study, at least, was clear of dust, and it was to there that I relocated, Claude in tow. Pouring over Greywyn's journal yielded me no further help, and there was neither paper nor ink on the large, ornate desk, so I couldn't even organize my thoughts. Too much time had passed anyway – if there had been, it would have been dust, and flaky black stuff in inkwells.

The dark guardians had been here, first, removing dust from all the surfaces so I had a small haven to occupy while they went at their work with a will. It wasn't long before I started humming to myself, to break up the oppressing silence that filled the halls and vaults of Deepscorn Hollow.

I sat in the comfortable chair, leaning heavily on one arm of it, and thought. This is _highly_ convenient, the bequeathing of this hideaway. Very convenient indeed.

I studied the handwriting of the note, and of the journal – compared them side by side and scowled. They don't match, which was puzzling. The first hand – that in which the note was penned - was elegant, utilitarian but there was something…almost feminine about it.

Greywyn's journal was written in a heavy hand that jittered as he got wound up, and evened out when he was calm – the sign, to me at least, of an unbalanced mind. I slapped the book shut and shoved it across the desk.

I scowled - so much for answers. "What do you think, Claude?" I asked mildly, knowing full well that Claude wouldn't be able to articulate an answer for me.

Claude chattered his teeth at me and shrugged.

"I think you're right –this _doesn't_ add up, and I don't like it," I didn't like the silence around here, either, and was eager to break it in any way I could. I stood up, stretching, feeling stiff and a little achy after the long ride, then so long sitting with bad posture, and looked at him. "How did Greywyn die?" a question, I realized, that I haven't asked yet.

I'm losing my touch.

Claude shrugged and held up his hands helplessly. "And no one else showed up here, that you know of?"

Claude shook his head.

"Security?" I asked with a yawn and another limbering stretch, flexing my shoulder blades together, then letting them settle back to their usual position and craning my neck forward until the muscles along my spine pulled. I exhaled slowly and popped my neck and back again. I never used to be able to do that…

Claude punched one hand into his other – the meaning of which was clear. Good security. He went on to pantomime that even vampire Greywyn could sleep soundly here, in the capable care of his trusted guardians. The place was well-hidden – there had never been uninvited guests, even when Greywyn's helper had gone out to kill, in the name of Sithis, and been pursued back. That, apparently, had happened two or three times, with the result that Greywyn had gotten angry and cautioned said helper to be more careful in future…or he could deal with the guards, and not bother coming back if he was being chased.

I smiled at this – I'd be a little upset too. You don't lead the Imperial Legion to your haven – sooner or later, they're going to figure out where you went, and then you're in the shit.

It took the better part of an hour to get all this translated out of dark guardian hand-sign and into human-understood words, by the way, with many retracing of steps. Dark guardians aren't particularly smart, they don't have the capacity to lie, unless they've been instructed to –and that usually takes magicka, a form of compulsion. "Okay - give me the tour," I finally said with a sigh. They'll have had time to make some inroads with regards to the dust, and I'll just risk it. Maybe I'll stumble across something.

Deepscorn was a large, sprawling complex – a little smaller than the Sanctuary, but not by much. There was also an easier way out –heavily warded from the inside – that led out to a thicket. I dropped back down to the bottom of the shaft, and walked out and back to the office. Well, it's not as comfortable as the Sanctuary – but then again, it does at least have basic furnishings.

--S--

I didn't stay at Deepscorn Hollow very long. Just a couple of days. The dark guardians were cleaning with almost ecstatic exuberance and were ordering the minutia when I left. I imagine they were rather pleased to be reanimated, and to have things to do again, but that was just me.

I puzzled over Deepscorn's deed, the note, and Greywyn's journal – all of which were locked in the desk – all the way back to Cheydinhal. It's convenient…and too much like coincidence, which makes me nervous. And there's nothing like a nervous assassin.

--S--

Arriving home, Shuffles came rattling up and began gesturing rather harassed. "Whoa, whoa…what do they want?" I said unimpressed by the jittery guardian. Surprisingly enough, I'm used to it by now. They're highly excitable, and when people get their norses out of joint, the guardians get unsettled and restless.

Shuffles repeated a set of motions, more slowly.

I didn't get a word he signed, but I knew enough to know that I was wanted somewhere, and there was a fair amount of something negative going on. I headed for Ocheeva's office and stuck my head in. "Ocheeva?" I blinked. "Shuffles is in a real flap, I didn't get a _word_ he said and you know how articulate he…" I stopped, as I caught sight of Ocheeva's expression. I'm still a little slow on picking up Argonian expressions, beyond smiles and scowls. "What's happening?" I asked, frowning.

Yeah – I know the guardian's don't talk –articulate is just a matter of speaking. A convenient word.

The Argonian got slowly to her feet. "Vicente and Lucien want to see you. They're in Vicente's office," Ocheeva said, sounding a little strained.

"Ocheeva? Are you okay…?"

Ocheeva nodded and waved me to get a move on, and I scowled.

She's not a very good liar, but I wandered off in the indicated direction.

"This is _ridiculous_!" Vicente snapped audibly, and I drew up short, hand almost to the door. I didn't hear Lucien's answer, but I heard Vicente's response. "Three of the Family slain – Executioners, and a Silencer too! And they want to send the girl? They're mad!" there was a loud thunk that sounded as if Vicente had kicked something –by design or accident I wasn't sure – and he swore loudly. Vicente sounded truly ruffled, but not nearly as angry as he had seemed the night he swore me to silence, the night I had found out about Elrick's death. More like…highly irritated, than truly angry. "I'm not taking all the trouble of training her so she can wind up in a _ditch_, Lucien. And you may tell them so."

I didn't realize Vicente had that sort of clout…but I guess it makes sense, him having been a Speaker twice and probably being one of our oldest members. I'll bet he's quite respected for those reasons, if for no others. I also felt a tinge of pleasure – it's nice to know he's going through trouble to train me – it's very subtle, and I appreciate subtleties.

"Yes, and I expressed that you would take that view," Lucien must have moved closer to the door, for me to hear him, though the words were still muffled. "And, I remind you, I knew Aurelius very well. He was a prodigious Executioner," I frowned – Lucien's tone, despite being firm and calm sounded…well, rather threadbare, the veneer of calm and politeness fraying to show that he wasn't half as calm as he was trying to show – possibly the show was for Vicente's benefit, as he was starting to sound pretty wound up.

Whatever I was supposed to do, neither of the two men liked it – that much was _painfully _obvious - and I felt a surge of annoyance, at the appearance of my abilities being questioned. I'm not a child, and I'm not unskilled, even if I don't have as much experience as others.

Then again, and in all fairness, I've never had them question my skill before and they usually take amusement in sending me on tricky, delicate missions, so I decided to err on the side of 'they haven't underestimated me before' and found out what this job was, that had everyone's knickers in a knot, before I went off the deep end and accused people to treating me like a kid. Something that still has never happened within this group.

This made me smirk, even through Vicente's somewhat terse response.

"Yes, and I recruited him, if you'll remember," Vicente said levelly.

That's it; I am going to wait for them to calm down a bit. I'm not just waltzing in there, to be yelled at out of convenience. Temper never makes people very smart, and renders social graces pretty sparse. I know I'm guilty of it.

One of them sighed – I think it was Lucien – and Vicente's desk chair creaked. "It's _him_, isn't it, Lucas?" Vicente asked darkly, and I could see him standing there, feet planted, arms crossed, slightly hunched like some brooding bird of prey, glowering down his nose at the floor, eyes blazing red in their sockets, as they're wont to do when he's angry.

_Lucas_? My interest piqued – Lucien's real name is _Lucas_?

"I think so, yes. Damned puppeteer. Why risk yourself when you can influence someone to send out sheep to slaughter? All he'd have to do was put in a good word about your latest protégé, and they'd take it to mean she's too skilled for her own good or some kind of prodigy. And Banus has never quite forgiven her –and you know how _they_ like to stick together. Fetching Dunmer…" Lucien growled.

I scowled: I am _not_ a sheep.

"Then it is as we thought – he's starting to use our own bureaucracy to whittle us down. And it will look bad, if word was not passed that she was ordered specifically to make the attempt. It will look like you're getting your people killed. You're sure…" Vicente began, trying to sound calm and failing.

"Yes – they know. Or, at least most of them. And she'll do it. And she'll do it to the letter…" Lucien said this as though it were a bad thing. "Damn perfectionists…" but it was a helpless sort of curse, and I took no offense.

_I've_ said something similar several times before now.

Apart from this rather disturbing conversation, I had always suspected that 'Lucien Lachance' wasn't his real name – I mean, I go by my middle name, after all. Still – Lucas was a very normal-sounding name. The sort of name normal parents gave normal children. It was a little odd…unsettling. I tried to imagine Lucien as a boy named Lucas and failed. _Spectacularly_. As far as my imagination was concerned he'd always been as he was now, as I knew him – though perhaps a little more of a field man than recent times allowed.

"Sarielle is…" Vicente stopped. "Sarielle likes flowers – did you know that?" he asked, then heaved a heavy sigh. "Sarielle – stop lurking and come in here. I want a word."

Damn. I opened the door and contrived not to look sheepish.

Damn – _sheep_-ish.

Both the Speaker and the vampire looked tired. "What's this mission?" I asked bluntly. "And why don't you want me to do it?" my voice held no accusation - just the tone I would use when data-gathering prior to any mission.

"How long were you out there –as a point of interest?" Vicente asked instead of answering my question, when a very preoccupied-looking Lucien said nothing. I think he was looking for the words to send one of his own to her death.

Well, I'm willful, if nothing else, and they should both know that by now. I shrugged. "Just since you started talking about the dead Family members," I shrugged. "I assume 'he' is Bellamont?"

Vicente nodded once.

What the hell? How did Bellamont get high enough in the hierarchy to influence the Black Hand – to advance his opinions to them, so that they'd listen…? You know, it's a good thing I didn't go bat-shit on him back in Skingrad –I might have wound up picking a fight that would wind up being bigger than Bellamont, if he's got the right backing.

As for Banus –who cares? I kicked his ass once, I'll do it again, just to prove it wasn't a fluke.

"You have been ordered to perform an…execution," Lucien said and gave a heavy sigh, then he suddenly perked up, as though struck by a sudden ray of light type thought. "Flowers, is it?" he drummed his fingers on the desk in a way that made me think of piano drills and then he smiled grimly, and I knew that Vicente and Lucien weren't talking about roses or the like.

I grimaced – that smirk makes me nervous.

"I…think I can make that happen. Vicente, brief Sarielle. Sarielle – don't wander off – I want you here when I get back. Whenever that may be," he said mildly, off-handedly even.

"You're grounding me _again_?" I asked, arching my eyebrows.

Lucien smiled. "Don't think of it as grounding, think of it…as house arrest," I chuckled at this, it's the same thing, really.

"I'll have Ocheeva send the Black Hand the bill for any furniture I wreck," I said only half-teasing.

"You do that," he got up and looked at Vicente. "Better tell her everything. Apparently, she has no concept of 'ignorance is bliss'," he was teasing, by the way.

I smiled back at him – the smile of the blissfully unburdened. "Aw, Lucien, you're disappointing me," I said and poked his arm. "Ignorance gets people like us _killed_. You know that."

"Not this time, Sarielle," his smile faded, and he looked genuinely worried. It was like he knew he was sending me to certain death – and that wiped the playful look off my features, the smile too.

I sighed and then shook my head and patted his shoulder bracingly. "Don't worry about me, I'll be _fine_. You know me," this got a very slight smile. "Hey, at the very least…I'll come back and haunt the Sanctuary. How would that be? Then we'll have Vicente, the undead guardians…and _a ghost_!"

There was a silent moment before I saw genuine if a little fatalistic smiles and Vicente shook his head in mild disbelief that anyone could be so silly – of course, I didn't feel silly. I'd said it to be humorous…no, not like the bone, thought that _would_ fit in with my undead things joke.

"We'll see. Stay inside the city," and with that Lucien strode out.

Well, that's better than real house arrest.

Vicente looked from me to the doorway and back. "You and your sense of humor," but it didn't sound like a slight. In fact, it almost sounded like approval. I can only hope that my good humor rubs off on people, or it's going to get very depressing around here, very quickly.

"Why did you call him Lucas?" I asked, more to keep conversation going than because I needed to know…or cared. It's a nice name, but not one I'd ever use. We're not that close – and honestly…he's probably grown into his current name anyway…so he'd probably give me the same look I'd give most people who call me Dagmar…

Though I do seem to be going by my first name quite a bit these days.

Vicente winced. "Lucas was his name before he changed it. It's as simple as that," Vicente said with a shrug.

I shrugged as well. It was until a passing interest, after all. "Fine by me," I walked over to lean on Vicente's desk. "So – what's the mission that got you two so worked up? I worried."

"You should - but not for us," Vicente nodded. "You've been ordered by the Black Hand itself to find and slay Adamus Phillida. In Leyawiin."

I blinked: and that's a bad thing…how? Wasn't I the one saying that I could do it? "Oh good," I said with a shrug. The way they'd made it sound, I thought I was being sent through the nearest Oblivion Gate to find and kill Mehrunes Dagon.

So – no worries.

"No, not good, Sarielle," Vicente corrected wearily. "Why is it," he asked his hands quietly, "That the young are so damnably enthusiastic?"

"Vee, you may have missed it, but…"

"Sarielle, please, this is not the time for you to act…like _that_," he waved. "This mission has killed…"

"Two executioners and a Silencer, I heard. What's a Silencer?"

Vicente didn't illuminate. "Sarielle, those were men and women with far more experience than you have – _years_ of it…it's not a matter of not trusting your skills. It's a matter of you not being _ready_," Vicente said. "Think about what your death would do to the others, before you carry on, if you would."

I felt my happy face slide off to be replaced with a look that made Vicente's eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch. But rather than feel a bubble of guilt and worry – which was what I think Vicente intended – I felt a calm certainty settle in my stomach. "_That's_ not going to happen, Vicente. I tracked Phillida to get his location, his plans," I said firmly, "and I could have killed him then – but the Hand didn't want me to. I assume because they want to make a statement, and I obeyed them then.

"But don't think that I don't understand what I'm getting into. Phillida's not a soft target, like Baenlin or Rufio – but he _is_ mortal. And if there's one thing you and Lucien have _impressed_ upon me, it's that you don't fight strong unless you're Gogron. You fight _smart_. And I'm smart. I'm your student…and his," a little arrogant, yes. But I _am _smart. "Tell me about the contract, Vicente," I sat down comfortably in the other chair and waited.

The abrupt change from my usual demeanor to my cold-calculating I usually save for the planning phase of a contract seemed to have garnered approval, if not confidence, from Vicente. But, he capitulated to my request, and spoke at length about how I was to proceed to Leyawiin – as soon as I had Lucien's blessing to do so – stalk, sight and kill Adamus Phillida. "There will undoubtedly be special orders when the contract is finalized," Vicente continued. "Right now, you simply have orders to do it, and we are waiting on the specifications."

"Wait...what…"

"I have here the order for you to be put on the mission, details pending," Vicente tapped the paper, then handed it to me.

I didn't recognize the scrawl.

Vicente continued as I scanned the paper. "This is a high-profile assassination, Sarielle. It's not like anything you've ever done before. And we are worried."

"Thanks for caring, Vee," I reached over absently and covered his hand with mine. It was cool beneath my palm and he shifted so his fingers curled loosely about mine.

I wasn't upset, or worried, I felt a thrill of nerves and a tickle of anticipation in my stomach. "I'll be really careful," I assured him as I stood up.

The vampire sighed as if he felt I _still_ wasn't getting it.

I looked down at him and smiled winningly. "Don't worry – worst comes to worst, I'll make myself invisible and _run_, how's that? For your peace of mind I will _run_, like I had Mehrunes Dagon and half the Morag Tong on my heels. Okay? Is that fair?" Okay, so I invoked 'fair'.

Vicente tried to look reassured and failed.

I sighed. "You're so sweet, Uncle Vee," I smiled and kissed his tired cheek before I set the paper on his desk and walked back to the barracks. It's nice to know they have reservations, and it's nice to know they're not going to let those reservations get in the way of the job…unless Lucien does some very fast talking…I flopped on my bed and kicked my boots off, wiggling my toes thoughtfully.

Kill Adamus Phillida. My stomach jittered pleasantly.

Two executioners and a Silencer. I don't even know what a Silencer _is_.

The big problem is that damned still he was wearing…he's the sort of diehard who would hang onto it. But if I can get close enough, I can punch Sufferthorn through a chink…and all armor has chinks. But that'll be a last-ditch effort. I don't want to get that close – recklessly close. He does have that huge sword, after all, and I'm sure he knows how to use it.

I tucked my arms behind my head and resolved not to say anything about this contract to anyone, until Vicente or Lucien let the cat out of the bag. No need to worry the others, after all –and if Vicente's reaction is any indicator, they will worry.

Phillida is Brotherhood enemy number one. That's a rank earned by an old beef – a very successful career to him, a hassle and a half for us.

I remembered back and lost myself in the parade of small details of what I had overheard and surmised in my week of stalking him across the Imperial City, the details rising like bubbles in my mind.


	46. Chapter 46

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks, as always, to all my wonderful reviewers! Enjoy!

Note: When Sarielle mentions 'still' she means a still for brewing booze – her equivalent of a 'tin can'.

--

Chapter Forty-Five: The Road to Leyawiin

--

The news broke two days later, when a courier, out of breath and looking harassed showed up around nine in the evening and spoke to Vicente for about five minutes. My stomach had been clenching into nervous shakes every time the front door or well entrance opened and shut, and this was no exception. I looked up from my book and stretched to see who was here and why.

Well after dinner, I curled restlessly in an armchair, studying, as I usually did, but without much conviction. The direction of people coming and going in my state of mind was enough to make me want to throw the book. The courier inclined his head and turned, trotting off. The door shut with a sort of finality after him.

Vicente read over the missive, glanced at me, catching my eyes, then looking away as though he had not.

My stomach leapt. This was it – the details that were pending. Within an hour or two I'd be officially sanctioned to go do my job. My fingers went cold as I watched Vicente. He wasn't giving anything away –his body language radiated calm surety.

If this turns out to be something stupid and not my orders at all…

I settled back into my chair, staring at the words on the page. They had stopped making sense some time ago.

"Ocheeva," Vicente's voice cut across the room, and Ocheeva appeared moment later. They held a hushed conversation and when I heard Ocheeva gasp, and I stopped pretending to read, but didn't alter my position.

This is it. I felt my stomach shudder convulsively and I set my jaw to forestall any further jitters. But I felt some of the warmth leave my hands.

Vicente will pass on the contract to Ocheeva. The fact that it came to him first means that the courier thought it was a personal correspondence from Lucien,– and Ocheeva will talk to me as early as tonight, as late as tomorrow afternoon. I wondered vaguely why it hadn't come by the usual channels, and decided I was not sure I wanted to ask. Security, I'm sure.

I didn't have to wait that long. "Sarielle?" Ocheeva called from where she stood, her head still bent over the message. She looked composed, but her voice still held some uncertainty. "May I have a word with you?"

I nodded and walked after her, radiating a calm at odds with the way my nerves had suddenly started acting up. I wanted to sit and jiggle my foot, tap a rapid tattoo on my arms, jitter and twitch and fidget like a child trapped in an extra-long mass at the chapel.

"Sit down," she motioned to an extra chair and I perched on it. Unlike the chair in Vicente's office, which is very comfortable and good to sit in while you have a hard think, this chair is more utilitarian – probably something she'd heedlessly snagged at one point in the past and just hadn't bothered to put back. "You initially did some intelligence work in regards to Adamus Phillida, did you not?"

She knows very well that I had. I nodded. She's ordering her thoughts, trying to pull herself together.

Ocheeva slipped into professional mode, which I suppose helped. I wished I could, right now I didn't feel professional – like I said, I feel twitchy with anticipation. Even if everyone else is worrying or will worry, I'm not afraid.

I'm cautious, I have to be…but to be afraid would be giving Adamus more power over me than I wanted him to have. And we all know how I feel about that. With regards to Lucien and that same circumstance – because he hasn't gotten any better about it since the day we met. In fact, he's gotten _worse_ – I've just learned to go 'mm hmm, yeah, sure' and get on with it. I guess I just…trust him not to abuse whatever power he does have.

Does that sound strange?

"Adamus Phillida has spent his entire career investigating the Dark Brotherhood, interrupting our contracts, killing our family members," Ocheeva's raspy voice snapped me out of my reverie – which went a long way to soothe my state of mind. It was low and a tone I associated with anger- which made her features look particularly fierce. "You'll undoubtedly know most of what I'm telling you – we have tried to eliminate Phillida, but failed on three separate occasions. He's a powerful man, and was surrounded by powerful associates," her tail lashed angrily. "But not anymore. Now the Legion pig's years of service have come to an end. He has retired – as you also know. Phillida must not be allowed such a victory! His destiny is...darker."

I smiled slightly. "How dark?" It was a joke- we both knew we would not be having this conversation unless 'dark' meant 'death'.

Ocheeva actually smiled, her eyes narrowing, reacting to my calmness. Steady nerves do a lot to bolster other people, I've discovered, and like a charm spell, it's something I won't hesitate to use. I wonder if she knew one of the dead Family members sent after him. "Phillida now resides in Leyawiin, in the City Watch barracks, an honored guest of the soldiers there. He is, in fact, more vulnerable than ever."

I nodded. "What's Lucien have to say?" I asked directly, nodding over at the paper on her desk. While Vicente is the master of the organized desk and Lucien the master of disaster, Ocheeva falls squarely in between – the desk is clear and orderly, but the shelf above it, and the drawers and cubbyholes are a total mess.

"That's what I like about you – very direct, none of this tap-dancing that Vicente is so fond of," her tone said plainly it was an idiosyncrasy she had accepted and moved past. To be honest, I like to gauge whether the tap-dancing as she calls it will do any good before I employ it. Why waste the effort on those who won't appreciate it? Or on a lost cause. "The Black Hand has sanctioned an important artifact for this execution – to be used by you and you alone."

I smiled again, feeling my spine tingle. Unique toys…well, that must be what Lucien and Vicente were cooking up the other day – flowers, I believe, or something to do with them. "What is it?"

"The Rose of Sithis. It is a magical arrow specifically enchanted to kill its target. In this case, Phillida. I will warn you, there are no second chances with the Rose, for the victim or the assassin, so bear that in mind," Ocheeva declared, eying me closely.

I smiled. "Ah –so that's what they meant by flowers."

A lovely joke – Vicente might give a girl flowers if he wanted to get into her good books…I couldn't see Lucien doing it. Unless she was a very special girl.

"I know you consider yourself something of marksman, and that you might even hesitate to make the shot, lest it not kill on striking. You needn't be distracted by that concern: as long as the arrow hits Phillida, as long as it hits where he is unprotected, he will die, mortal blow or not. The Rose is very potent, so much so that only the Black Hand can sanction its creation, and its use. And those are only ever granted in important circumstances –which these definitely are. But Sarielle, it _cannot_ pierce armor! Shoot while Phillida is armored, and the Rose will be _wasted_," Ocheeva warned forcefully.

"Well, he has to take that blasted still off _sometime_ – I just need to find out when or for whom," I smiled rather cruelly, I suppose. My head is beginning to spin and I found it took more and more concentrated effort not to let myself get distracted.

It was refreshing, Ocheeva's confidence - or maybe she was confident because I was confident – certainly was going quite a way in making me feel better about this. It's good to have a mix of confidence and concern – too much concern blunts one's perception of skill. Too little causes disastrous overconfidence.

Balance is the key.

Well, this _is_ the sort of thing I live for. I'll make it work, somehow. Leyawiin is close to Deepscorn Hollow. If worst comes to worst, I can crash there. I'm sure that Claude and the other guardians have made marvelous inroads on clearing out the dust and tending the garden.

"Sari: once you've gotten to Leyawiin. Track Phillida. Learn his schedule. Observe when he removes that blasted armor! And then, let fly the Rose of Sithis!" she smacked the table and grinned a little manically. "Lucien was very specific: you are to be given the best weapon possible to defeat Phillida, and he will transport you himself, from here down to Leyawiin, so that you have the fastest method of transport available."

Oh crap that means that psychotic horse of his…

"You may kill Phillida in _any way_, Rose or not. So long as his soul screams into the Void. The Hand does not _care_ what methods you employ, so long as it _gets done_," Ocheeva held my gaze, blinking in Argonian fashion –with the bottom lids, instead of the top. Her orange eyes held a smoldering fire I had not seen there previously…except once, when she had invoked a curse on Scar-Tail, the renegade I had dispatched of, at Teinaava's request.

"I can deal with that," I responded calmly. And here I thought they – the Black Hand - would be unreasonable.

"There…is a bonus," Ocheeva declared, and I felt her assessing me before she continued. Her tone indicated that this was iffy, and she did not expect me to do it, might even counsel me to decided whether I really wanted to do it, when I had things in perspective.

I have never failed to come through, with or without the promise of a bonus, because I am a perfectionist. And for some people, that's not a compliment. Oh well – maybe success will allay fears for a while. It's sweet of them to worry.

"But to receive this bonus, you must go beyond murder. You must send a message!"

I smiled. I like that, and I was waiting for something like that to show up. Hadn't I been the one to say that they probably had wanted me to hold off, all those weeks ago, because they wanted to use his death to send a message? "And what message does the Black Hand wish sent?"

"Once Phillida is dead, take the very _finger_ from his corpse, the one that bears an Imperial Legion signet ring!"

Ooh – I'm liking this – it's a very classical message, the old 'finger where someone can find it'-type message. It's risky, though, so risky…I closed my eyes and nodded, smiling slightly, as if I had sunlight on my face. My skin prickled pleasantly at the thought of the audacity of it…this made me wonder if I was really good enough. I suppose I shall have to see.

And run like hell, as promised, if it blows up in my face.

"Deposit this finger in the desk of Phillida's successor, in his office in the Prison Barracks, in the Imperial City! Do this, and the bonus is yours! I have high hopes for you," Ocheeva added confidingly, running a hand thoughtfully across her desk.

I laughed. "And here I thought this was going to be something unreasonable! Is that everything? Can I start planning?"

"It is," Ocheeva nodded. "I am looking forward to news of your success, Sarielle," her tone held her reservations, but also a resolution not to ruin my confidence with her own doubts. After all, who would know my strength better than I?

My answer – and the truth: Vicente or Lucien. Lucien seems to know quite a bit and I strongly suspect it's because Vicente tells him, as well as because he's a rather astute individual.

I smiled. "Things have been so serious here, lately – I would be _happy_ to deliver some good news," I considered. If I time this right, we can still make plans for Midyear…no, real plans, Sari.

What will I need? "I have to make plans," I said distractedly.

"Lucien will be here within a few days," Ocheeva warned.

I nodded.

I sought out Vicente at once, and knocked on his office door. I was a little worried by the quality of the muffled 'come in, Sarielle'. I didn't ask how he knew it was me.

I was plunged headfirst into darkness so advanced that I thought the world had suddenly stopped – that I had somehow and suddenly crossed the invisible boundary of the End of the World and fallen into Nothing.

I spotted the telltale gleam of eyes as I closed the door, and leaned back against it, so as not to get lost. I know this office fairly well – but I don't like the idea of blundering around in the dark. "Headaches?" I asked sympathetically. I didn't wait for my eyes to adjust –there was nothing for them to adjust _to_.

"You have no idea," the vampire sighed.

"Yeah," I said soothingly. I rather suspect there's more to it than that, but I'm not going to pry.

"I know why you're here," Vicente said, "Phillida may be retired, but he'll likely have a bodyguard, probably a member of the Leyawiin City Watch. You may have to dispose of him as well. So do not forget to watch your back."

I shrugged, unsure whether Vicente would see the gesture. "I'll keep that in mind, thank you, Vee."

The eyes disappeared behind eyelids. "You're welcome, Sarielle."

Of course, the scheming side of my brain said 'but if I don't have to…why bother?' Won't it look so much better, one strike and then poof – gone? I smiled slightly in the dark.

"You've got a scheme running already?" Vicente asked.

"No, just parts of one. I can't plan effectively until I've…observed behavior," I looked in Vicente's general direction. "Vee…" I wanted to reassure him, to make him stop worrying. It was beginning to affect me badly. And I didn't like seeing him so…unhappy, I guess would be an okay word.

"Would _you _send a child to fight a clan of goblins, Sarielle?" Vicente asked, patiently.

"I'm not a child, Vee," I said gently.

"My dear, I am three _hundred_ years old – and then some," he said tiredly, "to me…you are _all_ children."

I smiled slightly, but I also believed him. "Vee?"

"Mmm?"

"I know you don't like this, you've made it plain…but can you find just a _little_ bit faith in me? I mean, you're one of my trainers. If you haven't taught me how to survive...then I haven't been paying attention."

There was a soft chuckle. "Perhaps," he must have waved a hand because the lights crept back up. Vicente studied me as I squinted in the return of light for a moment, then he smiled, a real, if rueful, smile. "It seems I forget what it is to be young, and think myself immortal," he said quietly. "How odd."

"Now Vee, if I thought that…I wouldn't be such a careful person," I smiled.

That was the last thing we said over the matter. I'm not sure I succeeded in helping, but at least he didn't feel the need to crawl into a dark place and shutout the world.

Face it: we all have days like that.

--S--

My Sanctuary-mates were a mix of nerves and excitement – except M'raaj Dar, but I tend to ignore him anymore. Like an unpleasant fixture in a bathroom. However, I did notice he was hanging around during the group planning session –which was mostly Phillida bashing and in which I really didn't want to take part…but I stuck it out.

I was ready to go, and had planned as far as I could, by the time Lucien arrived. He actually looked like he'd gotten a solid night's sleep under his belt before coming to the Sanctuary. "We'll leave when you're ready," were the first words out of his mouth.

"I'm ready now," I shrugged casually.

And I was sure I had surprised him. "Then go – get your things. You've a date in Leyawiin," his composure was back together, I noticed. I couldn't tell if he was still upset about this or not.

Resigned –that's probably a good word.

"Just like that?" I smirked. "Tradition dictates the gentleman bring the lady flowers," I teased with a wink.

Lucien smirked slightly and produced what was unmistakably an arrow in a black silk bag. "And who am I to break with tradition?" he bowed slightly – teasingly –and held out the arrow as if it were a real flower.

I smiled and took the proffered arrow. He's in a good mood today. I wonder why…it makes me nervous.

"Unless," he added, looking innocently upward at me, "you mean to suggest I am not a gentleman at all," he didn't sound insulted- merely jerking the proverbial rug out from under me, to see if I was paying attention.

Well, I had never meant to imply anything of the sort, and while the comment caught me a little off-guard, it didn't catch me flat-footed. That smirk of his is a dead giveaway that he's got something going. "_No_, I would _never_ imply something so crass," I chuckled and fingered the arrow in its bag. Even through the thin silk, it buzzed beneath the fingers with potent, malevolent magicka. It sent shivers up my arm all the way to the elbow. "Wow…this is something else..."I murmured, feeling the shape of the arrow. It just didn't seem appropriate to have a look right here, and now.

"It is indeed – be careful with that."

I nodded, and considered sneaking a peak at the weapon.

"Go, get ready." Lucien prompted, a smile still playing around his mouth.

"Rrright…" I was back in four minutes flat, which _did_ surprise him, all my gear packed impossibly tightly into a rucksack, dressed in 'normal' clothes. There's a feather spell on this charmed bag – it also holds more than it _should_. Magicka: makes life easier.

We headed out towards the stables, and just after we passed the stables outside Cheydinhal Lucien broke off towards the left, and led us out onto the grassy plains. Then he stopped and whistled between his fingers –something I have never learned to do.

Shadowmere melted out of the darkness a few minutes later – like darkness becoming solid - and Lucien swung up onto her back and helped pull me up along behind him. He turned her and we took off at a brisk prance- though as ever, the ride was quite smooth.

"Where did you get her?" I asked, leaning forward against his back, hands on his waist so I could watch the landscape ahead of us.

"We came to something of an agreement, she and I," Lucien patted Shadowmere's shoulder, "In Skyrim."

I frowned. "Do you know her lineage?" probably not, but good grief…wouldn't the world love to know?

Lucien chuckled. "Can't you guess at it?"

I scowled at his shoulder. "Well, if you don't want to tell," I shrugged and watched the landscape.

We rode on in silence until I started to hum, the silence finally getting to me. At this point Lucien kicked Shadowmere to a jog.

By the time we got to Leyawiin, I'd learned that Lucien didn't really need to use the reins to guide Shadowmere – as he'd demonstrated. It was also during this ride that I saw Shadowmere at a full-out gallop – and I noticed a couple of things.

More _weird_ things about this horse: like how the feathers at her knees and hocks seemed to…to disseminate into shadowy, cloudy stuff, as she ran at a gallop, as if she were coming close to passing the barrier that separates our world from everything else…as if she was trying to become a shadow-made-solid on us and whisk though the landscape just as quickly. It was little unnerving, and when I asked 'is that usual?' I was assured that it was.

And Shadowmere was slowed back to a brisk trot, and the feathers were, as they had ever been, just hair on a horse, and not shadowy cloud-stuff at all.

This is a weird horse…beautiful…but weird.

--S--

By the time we reached Leyawiin – in record time, by the usual standard – I was more than ready for a hot bath and a long rest before beginning the stalk of my quarry.

Lucien took hold of my arm and helped me slide off Shadowmere's back, so I didn't stumble. Being unused to getting onto or off of a horse without the aid of a saddle makes one clumsy. "Be careful," Lucien warned.

"I will," I smiled, though and hesitantly patted Shadowmere's shoulder. She whickered as if to say 'that's okay, but don't try anything else'. "Thanks for the ride…and thank _you_, for your tolerance," I addressed the horse.

Shadowmere whickered doubtfully and pranced in place, and I stepped back as Lucien turned her and gave me one last look.

"I'll be careful," I repeated and with that, turned into the city.

There was a feeling in the air that if I continued to hang around, it would only serve to heighten and sharpen any sort of unease lurking beneath the veneer of calm and confidence. That sort of doubt would serve no purpose, and only make the job more dangerous.

Leyawiin was a lovely town – even if it was hot, humid, mosquito-filled and just generally not where I would ever take up residence.

At least Deepscorn was underground, protected from the weather – and it was to Deepscorn that I intend to run, as soon as I can. The plan – so far - is to kill Phillida, get to the Imperial City as quickly as may be, deposit the finger in the desk, and retreat back to Deepscorn until the whole matter blows over. It would be too dangerous to just run back to Cheydinhal, with half the Imperial Legion looking for an assassin.

Clever foxes do not lead the dogs back to their den.

If I could have, I would have been happy to lead them straight to a covey of Morag Tong agents, but that's not an option, as amusing as it might be. And it would be amusing, to let one enemy take care of another, thinking themselves clever, while all the while the clever one remained unseen. Everyone would assume that because the Tong had been caught, that the Tong was responsible…and the Brotherhood would fall discreetly out of the picture.

Ah for a perfect world…

--S--

The Three Sisters Inn was run by – obviously –three sisters, Khajiit of a good sort. The more upscale of the two inns, it was also the closest, relatively speaking, to the city watch barracks, where Phillida would be. Living it up a living hero – the great opposition to the Family, and all we stood for.

Shuravi was the actual proprietress of the Inn, and it was a little expensive to stay, but the coin was well-spent. The room was plush, and very clean. Setting my bags down, I walked over to the tin tub, set behind a screen and reached in with one hand. It filled with ice, from the spell that flowed out of my hand. Then – with some trepidation, and trying to imagine the tub was an alchemical apparatus, I heated the water, via a fire-spell, until it was just perfectly warm.

One of the benefits of being a mage is that you never have to draw a bath –you simply create one. This is the way to do it. I locked the door to the room, undressed and slid into the almost too-hot water. This tub is meant to accommodate someone a little larger than myself, so although I can't stretch out comfortably, I can come close to it, and sink deep in the hot water.

Tomorrow is going to be a day of information-gathering, of intelligence.

I fumbled for the soap on the low table by the tub and peeled it out of its paper wrap, and held it close to my nose. The Three Sisters uses wisteria-scented soap – possibly made from the same wisteria vines that cover the eastern face of the building – a yellow stucco thing, that sits very prominently on the street.

Lathering up, I turned to plans. The best way to kill Phillida was to use the Rose of Sithis – obviously, or it would not have been given to me – to shoot him from a nice safe distance…but that means having to cover some possibly great distance. The shot will need to be made from a high place – like a roof, or a tree…no, no trees. They're a pain to get into and out of – I'm no Khajiit, to climb using claws – I'm a clawless human.

I examined my fingernails and frowned – yes, human beings are not meant to be great climbers of trees – our fingernails prove it. Well, there's plenty of time – there's no limit to time. I could stalk for a year – though that would be inadvisable.

People are waiting for news that Phillida is dead.

Trembles started in my belly and I leaned back for a moment in the water, trying to quell them, but unbidden, the shivers crept up my spin, making my skin tingle. Two Executioners and a Silencer…what's a Silencer? No one seems to want to say anything about it – and it's very frustrating when my go-to people are proving about as tightlipped as a couple of clams.

Thoughts turned back towards Lucien – it's surprising how firmly he seems to have entrenched himself in my mind. A Brother. A friend…someone I respect and admire…

In more ways than one…and maybe not all of them professional.

I set the soap aside and sank up to my chin in the hot water, pursing my lips.

Despite his reservations about my doing this…he couldn't be more supportive , and that speaks more loudly than words. I just hope…no. His faith is _not_ misplaced. I make it a point not to hurt the Family…and if I got killed that would hurt a lot of people.

Antoinetta had faith in me – complete and total. She's been sure I could kill Phillida since I'd cockily asked him for directions the first time I'd ever clapped eyes on him.

Tel remained quiet – as if unsure where her faith lay.

That's okay. At least no one's given me up as a lost cause yet.


	47. Chapter 47

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter 46: Permanent Retirement

--

Three days of discreet and near-constant watching later, I felt confident in both my plan of attack, and the timing required for it. I had practiced it for two nights, and was convinced that it could be done – and done flawlessly.

Adamus Phillida hung around the City Watch barracks that was hosting him, enjoying the good life of a living hero. About six thirty, every day, regularly as clockwork, or the phases of the moons, he headed for a little swimming hole, southwest of one of the gates out into the Nibenay Basin.

The chief concern was my escape route – which had to be ready, or this would be a short-lived victory. The plan was to take a horse - already rented and waiting outside the gates. All I had to do was show up and take possession.

I was not worried about being recognized – glamour and a little extra gold can do wonders for a person's memory, though in this case more glamour than gold. There was simply no comparing the stately, hooded Altmer with a dark-haired Imperial.

Which left me sitting in my room at the Inn, preparing for that night.

Shuravi knew that I would not be here all night – that I planned to leave before dusk. But she liked me enough that she didn't think this odd – in fact, she agreed that night time was the best time to travel. Khajiit have good eyes in the dark, and those who live in the deserts of Elsweyr tend to travel between dusk and dawn – and take refuge against the sun during the day. So, in doing, I proved I was very intelligent for a human.

Combing my hair has always been a source of calm, and it was so now. Combed straight, braided and bound tightly about my head, the ritual of preparing for this hit in and of itself calmed the jitters that coursed through my body, every so often. My fingers and toes were both cold to the touch, but my hands remained steady as ever, unwavering.

From my bag I produced my shrouded armor, boots, gloves, and hood – the whole nine yards of gear. Shadowhunt the bow that would make the fatal shot, Sufferthorn, the Blade of Woe – for she must be here, for such an important event. It's strange…to become so attached to such a mundane blade. And yet, it would have felt wrong, like an ill-omen to have left her back in Cheydinhal.

Ill Omen…

Listen to me: I sound incredibly superstitious –that's unusual.

Vembraces, couters, the cowl and hood, buckled into place loosely about my neck – to keep hood and cowl from going anywhere, the buckle is actually attached to the back of the armor's collar, and anchors the cowl by slipping the buckle and strap through holes wrought in the back of the cowl for just that purpose. An assassin's armor mustn't jingle, and true to form, neither did this suit.

Belt, poleyns to protect my knees – and that is a concern, as I have to kneel on the roof overlooking Phillida's swimming hole. Boots, laced snugly to the knee, knot turned under the laces, so it would neither untie, nor snag.

Poisons in the belt, three vials. Two vials of restorative, one of my own innovation – it becomes luminescent when shaken, in case of magical failure. Sufferthorn on the left, the Blade of Woe on the right…I undid the belts and swapped them, Sufferthorn on my main hand, the Blade of Woe on the off. If I need a knife, I need to be able to count on a single well-placed blow, and a magical knife is better in this case. But I patted the Blade of Woe in her sheath.

Over the entire ensemble when the quiver, buckled comfortably, the straps running beneath my cowl, but the mouth of the quiver unobstructed by said cowl. I reached back several times to make sure that the movement was unimpeded, before producing the bundle of arrows…and the Rose of Sithis in its silk bag, all of which were placed with care into the quiver.

Shadowhunt came next, I strung it, checked the string and gave it a few experimental twangs, feeling a forced-calm settle into my stomach, which made my innards jitter worse than they had previously. I pursed my lips, wetting them with my tongue as I shouldered Shadowhunt.

I didn't need the poisons…but I'd have felt naked without them. Walking over to the mirror I opened the small pot of khol and darkened my eye sockets, and set the glamour over my face – changing my eyes to a lifeless black, as if there were no eyes, only holes, sockets. It would never do to be recognized, and even if I was seen, did it matter? It shouldn't.

Black-haired female Imperial. There's hundreds of people who fit that description. I'm only one of many. And you can't hunt what you can't find, can't target.

My bag of belongings was with my horse, outside the city gate – so I had no need to worry about it getting in my way. I glanced at the clock –this is it.

The chameleon spell washed over me, a familiar caress of magicka and stealth. I opened the window and crept out, making my way down to the ground. I had practiced this as well – it was a little tricky for those without balance, and a sense of daring, but it was not dangerous either.

Six fifteen. I need to move a little faster.

Trotting, unseen, thought the hazy streets of Leyawiin, I watched the sun, keeping careful count of time. I knew the timing – I knew how long it took to get from the inn to my vantage point, how long it took from then for Phillida to show up – unsuspecting, once a wolf to match my ilk, now…a toothless wolf.

Now, his guards might have teeth, but can those teeth find their mark?

I clambered silently onto the rooftop overlooking the swimming hole. How proper for Leyawiin to have a designated place to swim and cool off – then again, Leyawiin seems to have more Argonians than any other city I've ever seen…or maybe I just notice them more.

I shifted to watch the sun, bloody red sinking towards the horizon, huge in the sky, staining the clouds orange and vivid pink, while in the west purple dusk gathered. The air was hot and still, full of the small sounds of bugs and a town heading towards the dinner hour.

Another minute to drink in the beauty around me, to sight in my escape route – just as far as the city gate. It will need to be a fast getaway – if I'm slow, if I tarry once the deed is done, they'll be able to seal the city gates, and then I'll be trapped. That means a fight.

But I have an advantage: shock value. Who would expect Phillida to be assassinated here, now? On such a lovely evening? Who would ever have thought the Dark Brotherhood would have the gall to do it? Not when he'd whittled them down, harried their members, killed however many he could.

No, no one would be expecting _this_. A cold smile touched my features. It's so important to enjoy your work...

A deep breath to loosen up muscles that might tense in anticipation and with nerves. And another for surety. A third for good luck.

I have about five minutes – five minutes in which to array my tools and be ready to go.

Kneeling there, on the roof of the private residence overlooking the swimming hole, unseen by all eyes, or rather, perceived as a heat shimmer in the air I unshouldered Shadowhunt and lay it off to the right, on hand and ready. The instant it left my hand, it became visible – but who would see it, lying on the rooftop as it was? The sun danced off the black lacquered wood, red and golden-orange. Reaching back, my fingers found the cap on the quiver –since losing that whole mess of arrows in Oblivion, I had bought a new quiver with a cap, attached to the quiver itself by a leather thong. It fitted snugly enough that it took a tug and some effort to get it loose – but the cargo was safe.

Six thirty – I saw the glint of sunlight off armor, turning the walking steel bucket to blazing copper. It's amazing he doesn't go blind in a getup like that – light reflecting off it, getting in the eyes. How can you do a job if you can't see? Never mind – it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's going to reach the edge of the pool, here in a minute, and take it off.

I suppose I could have invaded the barracks, but why? When he presents himself so sweetly and innocently, here? Audacity? No, I don't need another mission of audacity –the Imperial Prison filled that tally just fine on its own…though this was audacious, in its own way.

I dragged my eyes away from the light that was Phillida and felt a sort of keen awareness settle in the back of my mind – like a bit of my conscience – the part that loves metaphors, and symbolism – curling up before a blazing fire for a comfortable read on a cold night. Light and darkness. And here, the two were about to clash – and only one could walk away…

Okay, Sari, cut the dramatics –this is real life, not some foolish fantasy…but I smiled anyway.  
Still, you'd never catch _me_ taking off my armor, just for a swim. Its bespelled to repel water –something I was counting on.

I found the Rose of Sithis by touch, still in its silken bag, and pulled it free, as Phillida's voice, and the voice of his 'bodyguard' drifted up to me. Bodyguard indeed- the boy's nothing more than an expensive prop to bolster the good commander's ego. As if he didn't have enough people willing to do it.

Until now, the Rose had remained safe in this bag. I hadn't even looked at it, hadn't held it in my bare hands. There had always been a thin layer of silk, cushioning it from the rest of the world. I untied the black cord that held the mouth of the bag shut and slipped the silk back. I could not see it, but I could feel it, feel its shape, and feel the magicka in it. It would, I was sure, be black – it would appeal to the aesthetic sense of the crafters, and make no mistake: we of the Family have a certain appreciation for aesthetics.

The arrow was slender as a reed, and even through my thin gloves, I could feel the sensation of it being wet-slick, as if coated in blood. I was not afraid of it, and it seemed to buzz, or purr in my hand as I ran a finger down the shaft, to the fletching.

This is not a weapon that will just 'miss' its mark. It _wants_ to strike a target, and pour out the malice and malevolence bound in its physical coil into the body of its target. If I were to nick myself on this…accidentally…it'd be goodbye for me…and there was no shiver of revulsion, just a healthy respect for such a dangerous, beautiful instrument.

And it was beautiful, I saw, a moment later.

I lay the silk bag and the Rose on the rooftop before me, as Phillida began the process of taking off his armor – I wondered where his cluster of vapid, giggling admirers were. Surely, he could have sold them tickets for this.

Magical armor – especially heavy armor –has spells on it to make it easier to put on and take off, otherwise it would take three men to help a knight armor up, and then take it all off later. And who has time for that, in these busy days? Most of the detachable pieces of my armor fasten onto the cuirass or the chausses, and can be left there, no matter how many times I put on or take off said cuirass and chausses.

Less muss less fuss.

It's unusual for me to take the detachable pieces off in the first place – but I had needed the feel of ritual, of preparation to steel my nerves. An unnecessary step, perhaps, but beneficial, in enough ways to justify it.

My eyes fell back to the Rose. It was black, and the arrow's head looked like it was made to pierce soft flesh only, and shone oddly dull red in the evening light. It was beautiful, red-fletched and sinister upon its silken bed – I was surprised that while the head reflected light back, the fletching and shaft seemed to drink it in.

I stroke the fletching with one finger, hesitantly, as I might have done to Shadowmere, if I didn't fear for my fingers.

Who needs real roses? Being given such an artifact, to use or not as I willed, was worth more than any fading flower.

I checked my gear over, one more time, touching each implement, and considering for the briefest moment adding poison to the Rose's head…then decided against it. No, this strike would be as pure as could be – there was no need for poison, it would be overkill. And I don't often say that.

There was a slosh as Phillida, finally divested of his armor, dressed only in cotton trousers, waded into the water, slowly. He's a lot scrawnier than expected, and looked oddly small without those pounds of plate and chain. I watched him begin to swim – at this, at least, he showed proficiency.

Unbidden and most untimely the thought of another male peeling off armor –albeit a lighter make – and wading in crossed my mind. Oh…now now, _please_…I don't need that kind of…of distraction.

I bit my lip.

_What's the matter, Lucien? You don't like to swim_?

_Ugh…I prefer my water in the bath. _

This is so not the time for this…

Phillida. Back to Phillida…why the hell is this sort of thing intruding on my measured calm?!

Phillida's guard was waiting by the side of the pool, and the pile of armor. I looked back down to Phillida, who swam comfortably past the point where I intended to make the shot. He can swim a bit – let him get to feeling calm –because swimming is a very calming activity. The water lulls the swimmer as gently as any mother lulls her child. I know – I try to go out and swim at least once a week, when the weather's fine. Comes from growing up in a coastal town.

Everything sharpened in focus as I picked up the Rose and set it to the bowstring. If I thought I had ever experienced hyper-clarity, and that was what I would have called escaping the Imperial Prison, I was wrong. For the moment, I do seem to be outside of time – watching the world, and the lives in it spin past me, like dancing motes of dust in a band of sunlight.

I closed my eyes and felt a shiver run through me. I'm not one of those assassins who gets…well, shall we politely say 'hot and bothered' like Telaendril. Or like Gogron who –according to Telaendril – gets _really_ worked up by death.

For me, the satisfaction lies in flawless execution…

…Heh. Pardon the pun.

But this was different. My skin felt like it was vibrating. Like it might shudder right off my bones. I haven't felt quite like this in a long time. My heart sped up, pounding quickly, strong in my chest, threatening to shake my hand and ruin my aim if I let it.

Deep breath. Hold. Release. I won't blow this shot over a few jitters, but still…I felt watched, as if dwarfed by something larger, something unidentifiable – something beyond the presence of typical human eyes. Shivers pricked my spine again…don't panic.

And that goes for everything else. Calm. collected. Flawless.

The pleasant warmth and burning that had run along my skin dimmed in the face of willpower, and the feel of the bowstring's tension as I drew back and sighted in the shot.

Phillida languidly drifted towards me.

My neck prickled, but the shot remained drawn, both eyes opened, focusing on the mark. Tel's voice whispered in the back of my mind. Deep breath in…half-release…and…

The string twanged and the arrow sunk into Phillida like a knife into soft cheese.

Phillida gasped in pain as my cover broke, revealing the dark shadow on the roof, bow in hand. Time sped back up, and I found – as my heart rate picked up speed and strength - that I was trapped. I tried to gain my feet but remained immobile, as if glued to the rooftop.

Phillida rolled over in the water, the Rose sticking out of his chest. He never realized he'd died, just that something had hurt him…but my knees refused to work, refused to let me get out of my kneeling position and carry on. I was rooted, trapped by the pound of my own heart and the rush of blood, of _life_ in my ears.

Fortunately, I had planned enough, that whatever was clouding my judgment was not able to stand against my will, my plan so ingrained into my mind.

I would do what I had to do.

The spell – or whatever it was - was slow to release me, but knees obeyed will and unbent and walked me over to the edge of the roof, slinging Shadowhunt across my shoulder, and reattaching the lid of my quiver, calm practiced movements all.

Sunlight burned bright in my eyes.

I watched my arms rise up above my head and my knees coiled as shouts came to my ears from across a long distance. Time was moving oddly…no longer quickly, but slow. In this state, I could watch sand flow from an hourglass and count the sands, each individually as they fell.

The fog in my mind vanished the instant I hit the water, and I became aware of feeling almost feverish, but finally completely master of myself. Phillida was drifting above me, a graceful shadow in the blue-green waters. I kicked off from the bottom and grabbed his wrist, finding the finger with the ring.

The Imperial Legion's ring was a heavy thing – the finger grown around it, to the point that removing the jewelry would be close to impossible. It glittered in the murkiness, and a moment later Sufferthorn was bright in hand, and the blade found the finger.

The water bloomed red virulently as I severed the digit and broke the surface taking in a deep strong breath, and swam, then pulled myself onto dry land, near the exit I had planned. Soldiers were running at me, I could taste the khol that had not withstood the water well, streaking my face and running down my skin like black tears, and the blood that infused the water.

There was a moment, as Sufferthorn returned to its sheath, where I had to struggle with the reasserting heady euphoria, made worse by the thick smell of the blood flowing from the severed digit in my hand. I'm not one to enjoy the smell of blood, but the metallic tang seemed to touch something deep, something primal, and I wondered at this sort of…high.

I hadn't noticed the euphoria until I'd been able to breathe properly…but it was distracting…

It could get me killed…

"Halt!" barked one of the soldiers, drawing steel. The 'shhk' made me smirk as I turned on my heel, casting an arm behind me, then I sprinted forward.

A thin sheet of ice blossomed beneath his feet, causing him to slip and fall, overbalanced in full armor.

I reached the city gates, as the rest of the guard realized that something was wrong.

The horse was exactly where he should have been and I jumped up onto his back and kicked him to a gallop, heading for the shores of the Lower Niben. Already horsemen were springing after me, though I didn't turn to look – I could hear the tack on their horses jingling, the armor clanking.

I kicked the horse to a flat out sprint.

The Niben glittered in the sunset, a vivid explosion of liquid bronze and copper. I touched my horse's shoulder and recited the signs that dripped like water from my mouth, cooling my lips, threatening to choke me, as if I were coughing up water and continued to head him for the river. I chanced a glance back as the first hoof hit the water –the Legionnaires were coming out of the sunset at my back, but they were slowing their mounts, while mine maintained his run, puzzled by how I expected to escape…there was naught to do but plunge the horse swimming into the river…

The answer was very obvious within seconds – precious seconds that would help me lose the pursuit.

The horse's hooves hit the river, but instead of plunging into it, he continued to gallop as if though puddles only, water-walking keeping both him and myself high above the water's embrace. I laughed as I turned my mount north and east. We would swing into the Imperial City ahead of the pursuit, for it would be safer and more direct to travel this way, by river and upon horseback, than it would to take the roads. Into the city, via the City Isle, and then to the Imperial Prison.

Leaning down against the horse's neck, our reflection flashed visible just past his shoulder, a dark rider on a sturdy horse.

Run him all the way to Imperial City? Unwise – he'd founder, and then I'd be forced to walk.

Checking over my shoulder for pursuit along the banks, my eyes were met by nothing more than the glitter of the river as we pounded north.

They'll be in disarray, in Leyawiin, unless I miss the mark.

Chase a shadow? Save Phillida?

Catch the assassin? Save the boss-man?

Decisions decisions – it didn't matter. With the guard in an absolute uproar over the fact that an assassin had not only dared show her face, that she'd killed the great Adamus Phillida, and cut off his finger –a finger they'd later find, when Phillida's replacement went looking for a pen – well, it was unlikely that they would be effective for a little while yet. Shock value, and all.

I resisted the urge to let out a mad, blood-drunk, somewhat ecstatic cackle

I knew, as the horse cantered along the river as if it were a shining road, that the Family knew that Phillida was dead. And they knew because…_she_ knew…the Night Mother, our Lady…and she would let the whole Family know that one of their great enemies had been destroyed, sent screaming into the Void…

The Family knew. The Family always knew…and this was apparently how.

Because _she_ knew…and it was this inexplicable thought that filled my mind, its source not readily apparent, but the certainty it brought…settled like a star in the firmament of my world.

It's some hours yet, before the Imperial City. Just one more little task, and this will be over. The threat to the Family has passed…the others worried mostly needlessly. I can't wait to get home.

Midyear is approaching…we should have a party. Or better yet, a succession of parties, as the Midyear festivals – at least around Anvil – last about a week. Imagine – a party with the lot I house with…it'll be something spectacular…and there's that lovely red dress in Cheydinhal…well suited to dancing and being seen.

--Author's notes appended--

Couters are the elbow-guards – I didn't want to use the modern term 'elbow pads', as one might find when referencing sports equipment. Poleyns are kneepads, essentially – though all these terms actually refer to pieces of metal armor, they're close enough to the leather gear found in the design of the Dark Brotherhood's Shrouded Armor. The innovation about the cowl is my own.

The general idea of 'collective conscious' is part of the Dark Brotherhood mysticism, and explains how they know when a murder has been committed. It's not that they're foresighted, they just have really good intel.


	48. Chapter 48

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

--

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Return

--

Deepscorn Hollow was almost unrecognizable, as I emerged dripping wet from head to heel, exhausted, saddle-sore, and stiff from a very long couple of days. The Imperial Legion was in an absolute uproar – it had been an exercise in skill and caution to get back here – the Legion was really out to get me. It was a seriously decent effort they were putting out, too - I'd never have made it to Cheydinhal. Wanted posters were up less than a day after Phillida's death – there was one stashed safely in my bag. I want to frame it. It's not a very good sketch – the Grey Fox has a better portrait than I do.

Claude shuffled up like a butler, carrying a towel, and handing it over, before taking my gear, and waiting for me to remove my weapons. "Put them in my room," I ordered and stretched. "I need a bath," I said to the empty cavern with the garden in it.

My hair tingled near the scalp as the pins came loose, one by one, and fingers massaged away the sensation. It had been pulled pretty tight, and left that way, dry and wet and dry again. I didn't even feel human as I shuffled forward.

The dark guardians had been industrious in my absence: the garden was orderly, and tended, flourishing in its patch of sunlight. I stepped up onto the rim of the stone circle that bordered the garden and closed my eyes. White light seared through my lids, rendered red by the blood in them, and the light was a warm caress or kiss upon my face.

A moment later, there came a polite jog at my elbow. Claude was back and had a goblet of wine on a plate, which he was offering me, and trying to sign one-handed.

I took the drink, a little surprised, and sipped it. The spicy warmed wine burned pleasantly all the way down, leaving a prickly spice-burning sensation at the back of my throat. I licked my lips – good stuff. "Say it again," I ordered wearily.

Claude tucked the plate under one bony arm and signed again.

"Oh, thank you," a bath was apparently waiting for me, and a change of clothes. I'm not used to being quite so well-cared for, but apparently Greywyn was.

The cloister-like halls of the Hollow now showed immaculate, dustless, the stone glowing warm golden in the magelight torches, in their brass brackets. No cobweb to be seen, the whole place gave off an air of being solidly safe – as if the stones could withstand any attack, and that it was safe enough for the occupant to walk around in pajamas, all day, every day, day or night.

The room that had been Greywyn's had changed. The coffin that had been there last time was gone, replaced by a proper bed, the bedclothes of fair quality, though I suspected they'd been in storage for a very long time. I was also sure I had seen this bed in some forgotten cellar – junk left to sit and gather dust. But as far as could be done, the room was welcoming and comforting, and very warm.

The tub was huge – big enough that I could stretch out comfortably in it, full length, and on a low stool nearby lay soap and a thin, somewhat threadbare towel. Folded upon the bed was armor, of similar make to my own, but different, all the same. At the foot of the bed, on the chest, was my bag of gear. Weapons hung from their belts on what looked like it had once been a coat-tree, redesigned to be a weapon-tree.

Claude closed the door behind me and I immediately sorted out fresh clothes, and then slid into the bath. The hot water eased the aches and pains of two days in the saddle, hiding from the law as nothing else will.

No one could positively give face to Phillida's Assassin – though undoubtedly they'd try, I thought idly, inhaling the steam.

Well, if they can get down here they deserve to…

I began to doze in the hot water and was startled to full wakefulness when bony knuckles clattered against the door. I reached up to cover myself – I do not like company of any sort when I bathe - and hunkered down in the tub. "Yes?" I called, a little irritated by the interruption.

One of Claude's fellows walked in, carrying more wine in a carafe, and before bringing both to me, fetched the goblet from the bedside table. Both were set near the tub, and the guardian withdrew after indicating a meal would be served soon.

I didn't ask where the preparations for said meal came from – I suspect that I don't really want to.

"Thanks…"

Undead things cooking dinner…guess I'll have to get used to that, unless I have the energy to make it myself. I could, I suppose…but hot water is cloying to the tired mind. I poured another generous goblet of the spiced wine and settled back in the bath. What a couple of days.

How long should I lay low? Not too long, or the others will worry…but departing too soon could be disastrous. No, it'll just have to be a few days. I climbed out of the bath and toweled off, and dressed in my normal clothes. I stretched out on the bed and let my weight sink into the mattress, which was almost uncomfortably soft. It needs a stout board beneath it…or I'm going to stink straight through to the floor…

--S--

Four days after arriving in Deepscorn, I could no longer face being stuck here, with no one but the guardians for company. By now, I'd named three more of them (Alastair, Ark, and Nikolas), and had gotten thoroughly accustomed to undead guardians being able to cook just fine.

No knucklebones or anything else weird in the food- which was superb. In fact, it became fairly obvious fairly quickly that they were – for want of a better word –glad to have a human palate to cater to. I don't imagine Greywyn was a big supporter of culinary endeavors, being a vampire.

I took the second set of armor with me – the guardians put it in my bag every time I took it out, so I finally gave up the fight. They also made sure I was armed, with a new knife that had previously been on the desk in the office. I didn't like the feel of it – the magicka on it would keep a wound open and bleeding, unless quick healing could come.

And it _felt_ bad…wrong…Sufferthorn feels fairly companionable, I'm very comfortable using it. The Blade of Woe knows my touch, and I know her hilt. This…the name of the blade was 'Crimson Eviscerator', and that was a major clue – felt dead-cold, like a corpse that's been too long in water. It felt…_foul_ to the touch in a way not even the Rose of Sithis, one of our most powerful artifacts, had. The weapon raised shivers across my skin, and not pleasant ones either. This weapon was designed to make a messy job even more messy, and I suppose that it would be a vampire's weapon.

And come to think of it…I don't even put Greywyn and Vicente into the same category – Greywyn was a fanatic, a zealot, reveling in murder and bloodlust in a permanent haze of red. Vicente is a faithful devotee, to Sithis and to the Family.

Speaking of Sithis, I made the pilgrimage to the shrine before leaving and this time, there was no dark fear, or sensations of being sucked into darkness. I touched the altar with one hand and bowed my head, and then left just as quietly. The only sound that disrupted an otherwise silent vault was the steady drip of water, in some hidden corner.

The guardians stood in a row, just outside the hallway. They saluted and I saluted back. "Keep an eye on things," I declared, before climbing up the ladder and checking with a detect-life spell whether it was safe.

This region is not densely inhabited, but one can never be too cautious. Caution is important – it's why I'm alive today.

It would be a long journey to Cheydinhal, from this, the opposite end of the empire. Two or even three days…more if the weather was bad and if the roads were being heavily patrolled. I shrugged my cloak on more securely, then my pack and set off.

No sense waiting around to get caught – and I was expecting trouble, on account of bearing some resemblance to the infamous assassin of Leyawiin. You never know how these gung-ho, bowstring happy guards can be. Especially the young bucks.

The caution was needless – it was disturbingly serene, all the way up to Cheydinhal, as if everyone had forgotten the murder and dramatic escape of the assassin, in the few day in which I'd been underground.

Worrisome – very worrisome.

So much so that I picked up my pace and opted to take as many shortcuts as I could –which meant crossing through the Imperial City, then Lake Rumare – to cut the journey short.

Unlike some people, I have an excellent sense of direction, and I smirked at the thought of Ailirah's overly-honest face, stamped with that 'what can you do' sort of expression. I wonder how she and her priest are getting on? Rumor is that he's a Septim himself – albeit on the shady side – and if that's true, she's probably sticking pretty close to him. Though what _that_ entails I'd rather not hazard to guess.

--S--

I climbed down the well, filthy, tired and feeling very out of sorts. I was tired, filthy, achy, and wanted a _real_ meal. I was still not sure which of my basic needs I needed to tend to first, though I was leaning towards a bath, and then whatever was leftover from the last organized meal. It was almost an hour after we usually had dinner, so whatever it was either leftovers…or I'd have to go to the inn and get something there.

Which I didn't want to do – it involved too much walking. My feet ached…

--S--

It was immediately apparent when I got down the well ladder that something was wrong. The conversation I had come across stopped, and silence descended like a curtain. "What's up…" my expression drained at the sight of pain and trouble and grief upon the faces before me, subdued and somber. "Who…who died? It's not…" my mouth went dry and I had to clench my teeth to keep my jaws from trembling. "It can't…"

Had Bellamont done it again? Had he managed to strike closer to home…was Lucien all right? And Vicente…my jaw began to tremble and my bag slipped from nerveless fingers as chill settled in my stomach and my extremities. This has _got _to _stop…I'll_ stop him, Tenants be…

"_Sari_!" Antoinetta cried, half-rising from her chair, taking a shaky breath, looking pale as if she'd seen a ghost.

I blinked: is it so surprising to see me? It slowly began to dawn that perhaps the dead person in question…was supposed to be me, but how on Nirn would they have gotten _that _impress…

"Oh! Ow!" I yelped as Gogron swept up and pulled me into a two-armed hug, squeezing me very tightly, like I was a doll. Trapped by Gogron's overly tight, overenthusiastic embrace, and struggling ineffectually to get loose as I dangled above the ground, I squeaked in pain and then screamed unashamedly as I felt ribs snap, suddenly and after a moment of groaning together.

I shrieked wordlessly again, and began to pant in pain, my sides screaming as I began to shake, pain rendering me incoherent and speechless, struggling to breathe through the pain that reached all my extremities and made my eyes ache.

"Gogron! Put her _down_!" Telaendril cried, alarmed as I shook and my eyes tried to roll as Gogron's grip remained tight. "You'll _crush_ her! Drop her already! _Now_!" I heard the sound of a hand slapping Gogron and I was released immediately, nearly crashing to the ground with a squeak, arms going to wrap around my torso.

I would have hit the floor, except that hands reached out to catch me, and a moment later, I was braced in a standing position.

I wobbled slightly as Antoinetta felt gingerly at my ribs. "Cracked….maybe broken …" she murmured and looked over at me, her blue eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. Seeing is how I had just been crushed by Gogron, Antoinetta didn't dare hug me, or do anything except help me stay standing.

I was sweating and panting from pain and felt a lump in the back of my throat. I patted her shoulder, wincing as I did so. "Thanks…"

"But you're _okay_!" she squeaked, tears welling up in her eyes, and without further ado, Antoinetta burst into tears and then ducked out from under me – Gogron put a helpful albeit hesitant hand under my arm as I swayed on unsteady feet, and flung herself at Telaendril who made a face saying that Antoinetta's mood swings had been worse since I had apparently been considered dead.

I wished I _was_ dead. I reached over and tried to patch my ribs, but was in too much pain to concentrate. Dammit Gogron…

"What's all the fuss...?" I leaned back so I was no longer screened by the sheepish-looking Gogron, which made my ribs scream so I hunched over again, trying to find the position that was least painful.

"Me and my ribs," I grunted a little raspily.

"Sorry!" Gogron moaned, jittering on the spot.

"Sarielle," Vicente lost three shades of color, I swear, which was startling in and of itself. He's usually quite pale…but this rendered him almost the same shade as the parchment our orders come on, and made him look like a corpse –a real, _dead_ corpse, not his usual vampire self.

"Yeah…" I blinked as Vicente walked over and hugged me – Vee's not much for hugging and the like. So imagine my surprise when he kissed my cheek and hugged me again, gingerly, though, so as to spare my ribs from being jostled. I felt magicka move through hand he settled on my back and felt the pain lessen, but not cease completely. "It's okay, Vee…" I said very wrong-footed, and reached up, now that the pain was moderated, and patted his back gently. "I'm okay…" I said soothingly. "Really…I'm fine, as promised…"

"You little fool," but his tone was at odds with his words.

I continued to rub his back. This is so weird – it's unlike Vicente to be clingy, or this worried. I mean, he's always been affectionate with us, but not like this… "Why'd everyone acting like I'm supposed to be _dead_?" I asked, wholly perplexed. "I was only underground for a few days…clean getaway…" speaking of getaways –that was worth a song or two from an accomplished bard – escaping from the setting sun, running a horse up the Niben like it was a winding, gilded road…

"Because you _are_, or so we were led to believe," Vicente stepped back and looked at me. He looked more tired than ever, haunted even, but even so, I could see normalcy trickling back into his expression. A few smart-assed comments and he'll be back to telling me to get a move on. "You haven't seen?" he asked, his eyes focusing on mine, red-rimmed, like Antoinetta's…which just made them look red all over.

"No, what?"

"This," Teinaava's voice hissed. I turned to find Ocheeva and Teinaava had come in, clinging to each other's arms, the latter carrying a Black Horse Courier in his hand. I received hugs from the twins and Teinaava mutely handed over the Courier, his tongue flickering nervously, as though waiting for me to go transparent, or to vanish during the blink of reptilian eyes.

I scowled and then my expression shifted to shock: my hit on Phillida was there, with a hand-sketch of a shapeless assassin in black on a rooftop – no doubt it helps sell the paper – the drawing was done by the same artist who had sketched out my wanted poster.

Scowl deepening as I read I felt the cold dissipate from my fingers and toes, and the cold in my belly was replaced by a seething distaste as I continued to read. Apparently, I had been right to go to ground as quickly as possible.

However, the paper reported the events in such a way that it sounded as if the Imperial Legion had found me, and summarily killed me off. This was supplemented by a second edition, in which a brunette 'assassin' had been killed. Though if you ask me, the whole thing sounded very contrived. More likely they wound up with a trigger-happy kid and he shot the wrong girl – she _might_ have been a bandit, but as long as she had black hair, people would be content to believe that the Infamous Assassin was dead.

A good thing, I suppose. After all, it would make the public uncomfortable, and with the Oblivion Gates still popping up every which way, social unrest was the last thing the Elder Council needed. And it wouldn't hurt the legion, politically, to look like they could still get things done.

I snorted softly – what rubbish.

"See? _That's_ why I don't read the papers – especially the Courier. Get the Imperial Letters, it's more reliable," I announced blandly and flicked the next page, ignoring the looks I was getting, which were visible only in my peripheral vision. I was, they seemed to think, behaving altogether too normally, too classically Sarielle to be a ghost, or some sort of shared hallucination.

You know, if didn't seem so egotistical, I'd frame this and hang it over my bed, right along with my wanted poster. I suppose I shall simply have to keep a copy in my footlocker – and save it for my non-existent I Love Me wall. Everyone who has an office winds up with an I Love Me wall. And this and my wanted poster definitely qualify as real infamy. I smiled at this and looked up. "Can I keep these?" I twitched the articles.

Teinaava nodded dumbly.

"Well, they didn't shoot me, they didn't wound me - in fact, they didn't _see _me once I got to the middle of the Niben..." I announced off-handedly as I rolled up the papers and gave the room a look, taking in the expressions on the faces I knew so well.

I smiled – and they say _I_ make funny faces.

Tel was recovering quickly, and was grinning weakly, as if the fact that I was here, being perfectly practical, was exactly as it should be, and shock was shaken off like water.

Antoinetta was still sniffling and hiccupping, hanging on Tel's arm, looking tired, troubled, but beginning to remaster herself.

Ocheeva was grinning, and Teinaava was too, but in a rather nervous way, as though they still expected me to manifest as a ghost.

Sorry kids - not happening. Ghosts don't get this hungry...speaking of _hungry_…it's time for lunch. Dinner. whatever, I'm starving… I could eat a _Daedroth_ and come back for seconds…

"You _swam_ all the way to the Imperial City?" Vicente asked, a little weakly. He swore softly in the Breton tongue, and looked around for a chair. "Sithis, Sarielle…"

"Of course I didn't, don't be silly," I teased with a giggle. Wait till they hear how I _really_ did it…. "I ran a horse all the way to the Imperial City," Bring on the innocent charm. It was a real trick not to smirk wickedly at everyone.

Vicente eyed me balefully, as if he couldn't take too many more surprises in one day. "Then what's the Niben got to do with anything?" he was getting very close to being irritated, and it looked as though he was glad to have a reason to get miffed. It meant everything was normal.

"Well, I cast water-walking on the horse, and we ran all the way to the City Isle – it was the safest route. Imperial legionnaires..." Tel had begun to laugh and Antoinetta was smiling tremulously. "…are _never_ mages, so I figured…" I was grinning now, unable to hold it in any longer, and so was Gogron. "So, yeah – I improvised. The place was crawling with soldiers and city watch. Might have been bad, if they'd caught up to me," I added thoughtfully, fully enjoying the reactions I was getting.

I wish Lucien were here – he'd get a kick out of that escape.

But, I couldn't bring myself to put any more strain on poor Vicente. He had worried so, and even if I kill people for a living, I'm not heartless. Not yet, anyway. "Well, I'm all right," I patted his shoulder comfortingly, "It just wasn't safe to come back right away: the place was crawling with Legionnaires, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you _don't_ lead that sort to your safe haven. So I camped out until it was safe to start moving," I explained. "I'd have gotten you a message, but I wasn't sure how to manage it."

Deepscorn is a handy place, and I feel it was very fortuitous that it had come into my possession: a safe haven, if I needed it. And hard to access. I still wonder where it came from – I still don't buy the whole Greywyn thing. I don't doubt he _existed_, I doubt that he was the one who bequeathed me the legacy. There are too many inconstancies…

Which makes me nervous, and there's nothing like a nervous assassin.

"Well, it's still early, I'd better find Lucien and tell him you've came back safely," Vicente said, pulling himself together.

"Want me to go with you?" I asked. I didn't feel ashamed of having taken so long to get back – operational prudence had demanded the time. I did, on the other hand, feel bad that the others had.

"No, no I don't think that's wise," Vicente answered, shaking his head as Shuffles brought his cloak for him.

Well, if Lucien was upset too…I could envision a couple of nasty spells hurtled in my direction, not to kill me, but to shake me up for having put the Sanctuary into such a state of emotional disarray. Fireballs, of course, Lucien likes to throw fireballs, according to Tel, and he knows I have a certain…problem with fire. I snickered, though. No – I can't see that happening, he'd just be glad I was alive, and not in the mood to kill me. What I _can_ see are icy looks, which are just as bad, and a verbal flogging the likes of which I've never before encountered.

I looked up to find everyone staring at me, and I smiled. "It's okay –see? Me. Here…ugh," I reached up and picked a leaf out of my hair. "I need a bath –excuse me," I wandered into the barracks, got my bathing bag and a fresh change of clothes.

A bath'll be just the thing – oh drat, I wanted something to eat first…oh well. Scrub, then eat – it's not like I'll actually die of starvation anytime soon. I whistled tunelessly and cheerfully as I scrubbed.

There is so much grime stuck to me, I can plant a bed of roses in the bathtub and they would grow like no one's business…I could plant next season's _crops_ in the muck coming off my hide – I mean, I changed the water twice before it stopped turning muddy. By then, of course, I was soaking just to enjoy the sensation of the heat on my achy muscles, and the feel of being clean.

How do I get so filthy? I've always wondered…

After bath, I bolted a hunk of bread and went to bed – because by then I was too tired and lethargic from the hot water and a long couple days. I was tired, exhausted to the point of feeling shaky and sick.

I considered as I dragged myself to bed – surprised that everything came crashing down all at once like this. I sniffled and flopped forward and then wriggled under the blankets of my own bed, curling up in a little ball and yawning again. Tomorrow…plan for the party…

It's almost Midyear…we must _party_…it'll be…fun…zzzzzzzzzz….


	49. Chapter 49

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

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Chapter Forty-Eight: Tattoos and Truces

--

I got up wincing the next day. Despite the fact that Vicente had patched my ribs –cracked ribs are easier to magicka-heal than broken ones – I still hurt like no one's business and resisting the urge to walk around hunched up like a little old lady. Ugh…I love Gogron to death, but he's finally done exactly what Ocheeva warned him not to do…I _remember_ the first conversation we had.

_Well…look at you – you're a little tougher-looking that I was expecting…I'd hug ya, but Ocheeva made me promise not to…_

He's actually been very careful up until this point. To the point that I think he's just now getting careless. I smiled and winced as I tried to chuckle, the muscles pulling and lancing with pain. "Ow..." I whined softly as I leaned against the kitchen entryway and hunched forward.

It doesn't really matter what I do, I'm going to hurt…but I have plans for a party! I want to go _out_ this Midyear and party until I _drop._ And I'm, going to drag everyone else with me – I've already decided. The only holdouts'll be M'raaj Dar, because he doesn't like me, Vicente because he's not much of a day person, and Lucien…because he's a wet blanket…

I stifled a wicked giggle at this. A very big wet blanket…and the giggle was cut short and became quiet appreciative thoughtfulness as the remembered images of the Lucien in my head wading half-dressed into a swimming pool returned. That wiped the smile off my face (giving way to my scowl of deep thought) and I pursed my lips, wetting them. In the flurry of events I had almost forgotten about that…oh sure, sometimes stuff popped into dreams at Deepscorn but nothing _really_ embarrassing…

This is not happening. What'd I say about not planning to cavort around with assassins?  
Still…might be interesting. Fun, even.

Phillida's got _nothing _on our Sp…

"Are you going to turn on the lights or have you fallen asleep on your feet?"

…Oh shit-_dammit_! How does he _do _that?! With the sneaky-feet sneaking-up-on-you!? I mean, hey, feel free to sneak around – if I drop dead of a heart attack, that's okay there's a million like me…

Grr.

The lights came up as Lucien stepped nimbly past me.

"Wow, you came to see if I was okay! Or did you come to exorcise my ghost, because you know I could keep this place in an uproar and no one would ever get anything done?" I asked as cheerfully as I could manage and pushed myself straight with a grin.

Ow. Here's to playing tough cookie.

"You know better than to interfere too much with the work around here," Lucien said blandly and walked straight over to the pantry without looking at me.

Are we at this, this early in the morning? Oh well…I'm the one who professedly enjoys these games…better gear up.

Still, I felt a prickle of annoyance. You could at _least_ give me a once over or ask how I'm feeling. Then I scowled. "Are you dressed for my funeral or what?" I asked blankly.

Lucien looked absolutely…well, he was all dressed up, let's put it that way. And shaved. He actually looks more the age I knew him to be, as opposed to his rather bedraggled self. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was off courting – or scouting for company.

Oh hell - he might just be – so the story goes, he likes them blonde, buxom and brainless. Guess I hoped he'd have grown out of it.

I know how this whole thing got started: it was the trip down to Leyawiin. Way too much time, too close to a very good-looking and dangerous man. I enjoyed the trip just too much – not that he knew, or at this point, should know.

Or he was dressed for a funeral. He turned to face me and looked like he was trying not to laugh – I suspect he knows about the cracked ribs, and even if he doesn't, he can probably guess as to why I'm limping around.

"I see you came back in one piece," he glanced towards the side I was favoring at the moment. That's Lucien-talk for 'I'm glad you came back in one piece'.

I quirked a grin – back to basics. "I told you I would," which is Sari-speak for 'Gogron cracked my ribs, if you touch me, I'm going to beat you to a blood pulp'…well…maybe not. It's a good thing I don'' blush easy.

Lucien smirked slightly. "Good – and how long will dear Gogron have put you out of commission?" he teased. His eyes light up a little when he's teasing. I'll bet he had the _biggest_ brown eyes you ever saw as a kid.

"No idea…not that I can't handle anything. I just have to a handle it at a distance…" I grunted as I dragged myself off my wall and into the kitchen, pausing to lean on the table. "Whooo…I'm moving like a little old lady…"

"Yes but I take it as a sign of normalcy."

"I love you too…" I answered blithely, but with a couple of stomach-twists. Hmm…this might just make things interesting, if I can keep my nerves steady and my wits about me… "Oh, hey – I'm planning party. You're coming," I announced.

"No, I don't think so," he responded mildly, as if telling me he didn't want coffee.

"Why not?" I flopped down on the bench, smirking, propping my chin in my hand.

"Because, your idea of a party will undoubtedly be full of stress and weird happenings and I do not care to be a part of them," he answered blandly then flopped onto the bench across from me.

"Ah – you know you want to," I teased.

"Someone's feisty this morning," he looked off to one side of the ceiling as if trying to pluck something from the air, "oh, wait, is this twisted Sarielle-speak for 'Lucien I need to be walked, do you have any nasty-filthy-dirty contracts for me to run?" he asked sweetly, looking back at me.

"The nasty-filthy-dirty's only ever in your head, boss," I said sweetly. "dare I ask what's fermenting in there?" I grinned toothily, watching his face for any clues.

Now, normally this would be an insult, and would garner dislike, and a few dirty looks. However, as this is well within the parameters of our game... Lucien chuckled softly –which for the first time raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and I realized I'm not the only one employing new tactics this morning. He patted the table with one hand, as if giving up. "All right –so you're in top form," he smiled. "Good," it struck me here that this might actually be Lucien-speak for 'I worried, and I'm glad to see you're okay – the smart mouth proves it'.

"You _do_ have a nasty filthy dirty far-flung contract in mind for me, don't you?" I asked quickly.

Lucien arched his eyebrows, rather suggestively I thought. Don't try that track with me this morning, boss – it's not going to unsettle me in the slightest, and I continued to grin – almost leer –at him from across the table, to the point of upsetting his train of thought. "Now who's got all the nasty-dirty-filthy …" he stumbled a little over trying to rattle off the recurring phrase and I arched my eyebrows. I can't believe I'm winning. "Oh dammit…"

He'd better not be _letting_ me win…then again, that's not his style, so I probably shouldn't worry.

"Wow! What kind of conversation is _this_ and can I get _tickets_?" Antoinetta beamed as she swept in. "Morning Sari," she patted a hand gently against my shoulder. "Morning Lucien!" she flopped onto the bench beside him and looked from one of us to the other. "Arm's all better!" she declared happily, wiggling her fingers for us.

Lucien reached over and felt along the bones, and I noticed again that Lucien has beautiful hands. In another life, he might have wound up a musician, or a healer, not an assassin. Funny how these things fall out. "All right –you're good to go. Talk to Vicente this afternoon – I think he has something for you," Lucien said pleasantly. "It's good to have you back, Antoinetta," he hugged her one-armed about the shoulders and Antoinetta beamed.

I watched without jealousy, feeling rather like a cat on a chair, tail twitching thoughtfully. What a weird family I've joined. It was also here that I noticed, the more I accept my current…state of mind difficulties…and don't try to play at denial, the easier they are to shrug off and ignore. Or at least, ignore until a more appropriate time. At any rate, I no longer felt like a blushy giggly schoolgirl, but once more, like a mature and intelligent lady.

"So – how's our little hero?" Antoinetta asked, bouncing to her feet and tearing once around the kitchen. "I'm cooking! What do you want for breakfast?"

Lucien flinched out of habit and I snickered at the reaction. "It's okay, I'll help," though whether I was talking to Lucien or Antoinetta was up for debate. I got to my feet and limped over toward Antoinetta, who turned and planted a hand against my shoulder and gave me a push.

"Sit!" she commanded firmly as I crashed back onto the bench with a grunt.

I felt the jarring jolt from my tailbone up to my teeth by the landing.

Lucien – bless him - put out a hand to keep my back from striking the edge of the table - which would have made me arch my back, pull all these sore muscles the wrong way and generally put me in a worse state of hurt than I'm already in.

"Thanks," I grunted as I regained my balance and turned so we were facing the same direction. "You don't shove hurt people around, Antoinetta," I admonished, and then I leaned over towards Lucien, "Who gave her sugar this early?" I whispered to Lucien, jostling his elbow with mine.

"I don't know, but I'm going to kill him," Lucien said wearily, and I chuckled. "So – tell me about this grand escape of yours," Lucien said a little more conversationally as Antoinetta continued to rattle around. He reached forward and took an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table and produced a dagger from seemingly nowhere. I grinned at the trick and watched him peel and carve up the apple.

Wonderful dexterity.

--S--

Breakfast was highly enjoyable. Not the least because it was during the meal that I came to a decision, and once I'd collected my blood price and bonus from Ocheeva, I headed topside. I am a girl on a mission – more than one, but let's do things one at a time.

I have been idly toying with the idea of getting a tattoo for a few days now, and have finally decided 'why the hell not?'. I don't want a big one – just something small, a commemorative sort of thing. What I wanted was a blue rose – just down on my ankle. Blue just happens to be my favorite color and the rose…well. I think we can all figure that one out.

There is a place in Cheydinhal that does tattoo work – it's run by a Nordic lady, and she apparently specializes in blue ink. What I wasn't expecting was the discomfort during the tattooing process –though, really, what _did_ I expect_? _They're driving a pigment under my skin – and then the realization that wearing my boots is going to irritate the thing.

But – I thought, examining the injured, tinted skin before Hilde bandaged it up – it was worth it. It was no longer than my index finger, and perhaps half that wide. I limped to my next stop. I need to figure out how I'm going to convince everyone that a Midyear festival is just what we need.

--S--

It was so much easier than I thought to get Antoinetta and Gogron to go along with this whole 'big party, big fun' idea. Tel was a little more reserved, but as Gogron was going, it was not hard to slip to her that she might need to go to keep the local single girls at bay.

The premise being Gogron could get into a lot of trouble, really fast, being the kind of individual he is. Tel's eye narrowed at this and she rapidly agreed that such a party could be fun…Tel is very…protective…over things she considers hers. And when it comes to people…well. She, like most of us, doesn't share well with others.

"And if you're going to usurp a barracks," I hissed at her, "then you'd better usurp the guys'."

"Why, love? Do you have plans?" Tel teased.

I clenched my jaw. No, I don't have plans…though if I were to give my daydreams free reign, I might be able to come up with _something_. The truth is, and it pains me to say it, I really have become totally uninterested in 'normal' guys. Like I've said –with increasing annoyance, and now some resignation: suave, sophisticated, sober, with beautiful hands.

I _do_ know someone like that...unfortunately for me, he's not only my boss (would that be awkward, d'you think?), but he's dangerous. And while that's really kind of…well…yeah. I don't mean physical-hurt dangerous…I really do believe that if there was one person in the world who could break my heart – or worse, turn me into a drone – it would be him. And I'd never see it coming...and that's a little scary to me.

Well, in my favor – I'm the only girl I know of with whom he plays verbal chess. And as I like to be thought of as an intelligent young lady, there are few higher compliments.

And I'm quite sure he knows that – he's very perceptive…so much so that half the time I'm afraid I'll give myself away. I'd never hear the end of it. Fortunately he's not a Magnificent Bastard, so I don't have to worry about him abusing the knowledge.

He knows I'd make a valid attempt at kicking his ass if I caught him at it.

Hehehe…that could be interesting…

_Dammit_!

"Sarielle?"

"Huh?" I blinked stupidly, looking up at Tel.

Tel was grinning at me in a way I associated with imminent discomfort. "Sari?"

I glowered. "It's nobody's business…"

"Ahah!" I got ambushed by Antoinetta, who whapped me over the head with a pillow - knocking me forward with a yelp to face-plant at Tel's knees. _Don't hit the injured people! _"I knew it! You found someone! Is he cute? Do I know him? Does _he_ know?"

I muffled a comment that might have been 'get off my head' before Tel shooed Antoinetta back.

I sat up, rubbing the back of my head and scowling. "I'm not gonna answer that. You _don't_ ambush injured people, Antoinetta! You trying to kill me or what?!"

She ignored my annoyance, beaming enthusiastically. She's been of the opinion that I need to find myself a guy since…well, the first week. What she doesn't realize is that a fling is just that – but respect lasts a lot longer…and sometimes can give way to other things. I'm still a little undecided about what I want to do – I can ignore the issue for now…enjoy being caught up in it, because frankly, I've never felt a pull of attraction _quite_ like this – it's unique…but sooner or later I'll have to decide whether to make a valid attempt at getting a certain someone's attention…or just give up.

"What? Why? You know all about us…" Antoinetta whined.

Yes I do –the point that Tel commented the other day that Gogron had never been as good as on the day I did Phillida in. I shivered – knowing how they both get…ah…_worked up_…by death I did _not_ want to think about that. Ugh.

"Because –this isn't a girls' night in, and it's just…a passing crush. it'll go away," I lied stolidly. It was as good an excuse as any. Actually, I think Tell might suspect, but she kept her mouth shut, and changed the topic quite deftly.

Shit-dammit. I don't have time for this - there's a traitor on the loose. If Lucien knew he'd finally succeeded in getting under my skin…

--S--

I ran into M'raaj in the workroom and set my jaw and headed for the potions cabinet, in no mood to deal with his crap. I hoped I was radiating a 'leave me alone, furball' aura loudly enough that he'd obey.

"Ah…Sarielle…?"

I turned. "Yes?" I asked neutrally, though my eyes narrowed. Don't start with me. But my expression loosened up as I watched the Khajiit jitter a little, looking rather guilty and highly embarrassed. "What?" I asked more normally.

M'raaj lashed his tail nervously. "Look...I've been thinking, and...well...I guess I just want to say that…I'm-sorry-for-the way-I've-treated-you-in-the-past," he said this very fast, so I had to scowl as I tried to unravel the words.

"Oh…" I said moment later, not masking my surprise quickly enough, so I looked blankly surprised. I squinted at M'raaj…could this be a cunning attempt to get close to me to cause more trouble?

"I mean, look at you!" he said enthusiastically, seeing the expression and realizing what it probably meant, "The things you've accomplished! You've obviously proven yourself a valuable member of this Sanctuary. Family!"

I was starting to grin, very slowly. M'raaj doesn't usually frequent the workroom, but I do – so it looks like he was waiting around for me to show up. So he could say this without an audience.

And he _has_ kind of cut the crap recently…I mean, compared to when I first got here.

"So I take it that I can tell Lucien he doesn't have to check his food before he eats it?" I asked blithely.

M'raaj bared his teeth in a classical Khajiit grin. "Well...it was kind of funny…"

We both looked at each other, and began to snicker softly. "Are you kidding?" I asked through snickers and gritted teeth, trying to keep said snickers at bay, "it was like…wahh!" I pantomimed breathing fire and began to laugh in earnest, wincing as I collapsed onto the workbench. "Ooh…ouch…"

"So let's start over, shall we? I know from now on, you and I are going to be great friends!" M'raaj perched on the bench next to me as I contained my giggles.

Poor Lucien…he really _did_ look too funny, all pink, with his mouth on fire…

"You know, though…I've heard you have a…a magical problem…what is it…exactly?"

I scowled thoughtfully. Do I trust him that easily? That quickly?

"Maybe I can help," he said with a shrug.

"Well…" I explained about my fire-spells' disposition for getting out of control.

"Show me," M'raaj stood up and I stood up as well, setting up a candle.

I lit it and watched it explode into flames, a little too vehemently.

"Whoo! Now that's unusual…" M'raaj said, blinking. "Here – just hold it in your hand," I held up a hand and let the spell gather, as M'raaj cast a…I don't know what he was doing, actually, and a moment later he nodded, looking like someone with a puzzle. "You have trouble with fire," M'raaj said. "Do you have trouble with anything else?"

"No, just this," I said, looking at the red light gathering and glowing in my hand. I could see the shadows of the bones in my hand through the light, and twisted and curled my hand, watching the shadows move and cross.

"Well, I can explain that for you. You have trouble with the fire," M'raaj finally said, putting paw-like hand on my shoulder, "Because you are afraid of it."

"I'm not afraid of it," I protested.

"Your magicka says otherwise," M'raaj said mildly. "You're afraid of it – magicka is like a horse. It knows when you don't feel confident, and like a horse, it will take advantage. And, I notice, that you have an affinity towards fire-spells – the spell comes very easy to hand, and wants very much to be used. And you don't have the confidence or the control needed – that's a recipe for magical surges and general…lack of control. It's all right – don't frown," M'raaj waved then patted my back firmly, rattling my lungs as he did so. "it is not a difficult thing to fix…"

I sighed as if to say 'yeah right'.

"Now, don't be like that," M'raaj said earnestly, "I am Khajiit – and we are not usually mages. But here I am," he shrugged. "What do they teach you, in these silly guilds I wonder?"

"Not much..." I grunted.

--S--

Half an hour later I was standing in the middle of the common room, under M'raaj's instruction, blazing like a torch – while the Khajiit roasted marshmallows on the blaze. Honestly, the spell had an added effect –it raised my body temperature, and warmed my muscles, so I felt a lot better now than I had earlier. Muscles loosened under the heat, and I was moving more pain-free. Keep this up and I'll be ready for that nasty-filthy-dirty mission Lucien promised - or virtually promised – me in a few hours.

Speak of the devil.

"What is _this_? Never mind, I don't want to know," Lucien's voice declared.

I turned slowly, still keeping my spell in check. "Just practice," I answered, feeling the hot, acrid spell issue from my mouth like smoke, scorching against my lips, and stinging to my eyes. It was like breathing noonday-desert-hot air out, an uncomfortable sensation.

I licked my lips, blinked a few times, and swallowed to try and ease the spicy-hot feeling scratching the back of my throat.

"Well, don't burn down the house – either of you," Lucien pointed severely at the two of us, but his eyes lingered on Sarielle, the Amazing Imperial Torch.

"Of course," M'raaj said.

I smirked, and quelled a little under the mock-stern look Lucien gave me. He raised a finger at me in feigned severity, and I grinned. "Oh…right, me too."

"You too what?" Lucien asked.

Dammit. But I laughed again and hissed slightly at the discomfort of the magicka's burn. "Mmm…I promise not to burn the house down," I said with a cheeky obedience that would probably set the hair on the nape of his neck on end. It was obviously lip-service…even if I had no intention of burning down the house, or letting anything happened to it.

So I guess it was just smart-assed-ness and not lip service at all.

"Make sure you don't," Lucien said and turned, but I saw him snickering while we wouldn't see him clearly.

"Ah, he's in a good mood," M'raaj said as he produced another marshmallow. "Want?" he offered.

"Nah," I closed my eyes, enjoying the heat of the spell. "Am I getting better?"

"Slowly," M'raaj said, but it he was obviously more interested in the marshmallows than in my question. I rolled my eyes. "But, if you're bored…I can sell you a spell I think you'll find useful."

"I _knew_ money'd come into this," I said, only half-joking. He's an excellent entrepreneur, truth be told.

"What? I am I not supposed to make a little, not being as much of a field agent as you are? We aren't all Sarielle in this life," M'raaj grumbled good-naturedly.

I snuffed my fire out, feeling the air of the room press suddenly cold against me. I broke into shivers and rubbed my arms.

"Hey! I'm only half-finished!" M'raaj complained, waving the half-cooked marshmallow on its toasting fork around.

"That okay, I like mine half-cooked," I snagged the marshmallow and popped it whole into my mouth. "So," I said, once I swallowed it and was happily licking sticky-goodness off my fingers. "What's this spell...and how much is it going to cost?"

--Author's notes appended--

The song in my head and on my media player for Sarielle was "Under My Skin", by Frnak Sinatra, cover version by Michael Buble. It's very well-fitted – check it out -.


	50. Chapter 50

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks, as always, to my wonderful reviewers – you help prevent writers' block!

--

Chapter Forty-Nine: Summons

--

Midyear festivities kick off today – about a week after getting back from Leyawiin – and I am so ready for it! Harlun's Watch starts off today, and that's where we're going to head around five or so. We should arrive just in time – and the Leyawiin festival starts tomorrow…and it's all party all the time after that. Tel will only be here for tonight, and maybe the last night – Ocheeva says her orders stand – to the 'mer's distaste. Ocheeva wound up being a holdout – but Vicente promised he'd come with us at least one evening.

I guess that's as good as I'm going to get. Antoinetta and Tel are still getting cleaned up. Me? I've been ready to go for a half-hour already, and I must say, I look pretty darn good. No sign of Lucien, so I can't try and twist his arm so he'll do something fun – you know, like with the rest of us.

Red is one of my colors, and this dress is decidedly red. It doesn't have nasty laces up the back –it laces up the front, with a claret ribbon…oooh! It's gonna be fun…I turned as the door opened and caught the waft of my own perfume. It's old, but still smells nice –cherry blossom. It was my favorite when I lived in Anvil.

"You are Sarielle, the Assassin?"

The courier stood in the entryway, waving off Smethwick, looked massively harassed and eager to be on his way. "I am," I said, striding over.

I had gotten the promotion to Assassin a day or two after Lucien left, once Phillida was dead. Apparently, the fact that I'd completed the mission – to say nothing of the fact that I completed the bonus requirements _and_ got away unscathed with someone else taking the fall for my activities - had suitably impressed the Black Hand. At any rate, Ocheeva and Vicente head both been pleased –though the latter had warned me to keep my head down for a bit, lest I attract the wrong sort of attention.

You know, that's _twice_ Bellamont has tried to orchestrate my untimely and unfortunate death and twice he's failed. Do you think he'll take the hint? Because that's what this was about - he put the right honeyed words into the right ears and people were like 'oh hey, let's set that skilled, tactful, _gorgeous_ Eliminator on this right away!'.

Kh.

Of course, no one laughed when I said this out loud – but the way I see it, he _failed. _I succeeded. So what does that indicate? Ah, well. As long as _I'm _laughing, I suppose. And believe me – I'm nearly in hysterics. I hope Bellamont's treacherous black guts _rot_ over this.

"This is for you. Urgent dispatch from Speaker Lachance," the courier held out the envelope.

I blinked in genuine surprise and took the envelope. It was black, and made of heavy paper, and it bore a wax seal that hummed faintly with magic. I blinked at it. I've seen these before…and that does _not_ encourage me… "Thank you," I said automatically. Why do I get the nasty feeling this can't be good?

I didn't pay attention to the courier leaving. I had the feeling that the letter might explode, or something…even though I know that's not right. Have you ever picked up something, expecting it to be hot, and reacted as if it were…even though the object tin question is stone cold? That was what it was like, taking this envelope.

The envelope had my attention. I _have_ seen envelopes like this, once – no, _twice_ before. Once, just before Ocheeva vanished for a couple of days. She didn't say where she was going, when she'd be back…she just vanished within half an hour of receiving it, no questions, no comments.

And the missive I'd delivered to Elrick.

_What…is that, if I can ask?_

_Orders. _

The wax of the seal bore what looked like a fingerprint and a raised "LL" scrawled elegantly in it. The seal vanished at my touch. Which means that Lucien has something of mine to use, to 'teach' the spell whom to recognize – because that's what it is. The spell inside the wax recognizes the touch of an individual – I've seen it used before. I could probably do it if I had to…and if I could get something of the individual to whom I'd be corresponding.

My stomach jittered uncomfortably as I opened the note, and scanned it, frowning. A sense of foreboding settled in my stomach, pushing annoyance aside. I know I've done nothing to warrant a reprimand…and as much as I hate the terms 'fair and unfair', subjective as they are, Lucien is, by and large, fair with his subordinates.

He's tough when he's got to be – and it's uncomfortable when he is, because the Sanctuary is so close-knit. He can put Antoinetta in tears with less than six words and a disappointed frown. But this put my nerves on edge, and I watched the paper tremble slightly for a moment before it stilled.

_Sarielle,_

_You have served the Dark Brotherhood well in the short time you have been with us. Indeed, the rate of your advancement has been rather remarkable. Now the Black Hand is in need of your abilities._

_Proceed with all haste to my private refuge in the ruins of Fort Farragut, located in the forest northeast of the Sanctuary. When you arrive, we will discuss the nature of the matter at hand._

_I cannot stress to you enough the importance of your _timely _arrival at Fort Farragut. There are unseen powers working to unravel the very fabric of the Dark Brotherhood. The Black Hand is counting on you to prevent this disaster._

_Do not share the contents of this message with anyone at the Sanctuary, including Ocheeva, and make no mention of your journey to Fort Farragut. Also, be warned -- my refuge within Fort Farragut is guarded by denizens who will attack any interloper on sight. Get through these rotting sentinels and you will surely have earned the right to visit my private sanctum._

_Lucien Lachance_

'Private sanctum'…how typically Lucien. Still haven't outgrown forts and hideouts, have we? But I smiled anyway…and then groaned. "Oh damn!" I exclaimed, scowling at the missive in shock and annoyance. 'With all haste', and Lucien means it – I need to get myself there in good time – which means I'm going to miss the Midyear party that we were planning. Crap! We were going to start _tonight_, and spend the next night every night for a solid _week_ looking for festivals to go to, come back here, drink and dance and generally have a really loud really good time! He _knows that!_

I bought a nice dress for this! I'm all dressed up and _pretty_, too… I don't want to waste this kickass dress, running errands!

But…the professional in me said sneakily…if Lucien wants me to show up at his 'private sanctum' – the one I obviously don't know about – then it probably means he's got business for me to handle. I smiled thinly – work or play? Kill someone to exacting standards…or watch Gogron take over the dance floor?

Decisions decisions.

And always bearing in mind that if I make him _wait_, Lucien'll find a way to take it out of my hide later. He doesn't like to wait. Well, I suppose part of it is 'doesn't like', most if it is 'doesn't have time to be waiting about'. And he usually doesn't.

Damn.

I reread the missive, trying to read between the lines. '_The Black Hand is in need of your abilities'_…I doubt that – more like this is Lucien-speak for 'hey Sari, I need a favor'. Why can't he just come out and ask like a normal person?

Easy: this is _Lucien_ we're talking about.

Maybe less a contract and more…maybe he's got something concrete on Bellamont? I bit my lip – he's got an oddly formal style of writing – I don't know if that's at all usual for him. It reads almost like a contract would…but...why doesn't he want the others to know I'm gone? If I told them 'Lucien wants me to play courier' no one'd say anything…and that doesn't mention Farragut or _anything_.

I exhaled and looked around, and then folded up the letter and tucked it into my sleeve, to lie along my forearm, flat and hidden, and hurried to my space in the barracks and gathered up a few things. I'll just have to swing up to Farragut, find out what Lucien wants, and then get back to the party quickly – maybe I'll be able to drag Lucien along. You never know – he'll fuss and fume, but I think that deep down, he could use a little down time.

By the time I got back, Gogron had reappeared with flowers for Tel, and Antoinetta and Tel were both out of the bath. They needed to put their makeup on, still, but otherwise looked lovely.

"Sari?" Tel appeared, wearing a lovely forest green gown, with a heavily brocaded bodice that emphasized her slender, stately elegance in a way that neither Antoinetta nor I could ever achieve. Speaking of Antoinetta, she came bobbing along in Tel's wake, dressed in a lovely dusky violet that looks surprisingly good with her hair, brushed soft and sleek, probably by Tel.

"Where you going?" Antoinetta asked, eyeing my bag, slung over one shoulder, and my harassed expression.

"Going?" Gogron scowled. "But…tonight's the first party! I brought you a flower, look," he earnestly held out a red rose, almost the same color as my dress the sort meant to be worn in the hair – a Gogron apology. He still felt bad about cracking most of my ribs.

"Thanks Gogron…that's really sweet," I smiled and patted his arm, taking the flower. I worked it into my hair as I spoke – it's not hard, and if you know what you're doing… "As for the party, I know," I turned and ran a hand over one sleeve thoughtfully, feeling the material of the red dress slide under my hand, soft and plush. "I know, but you know how it is when they tell you 'I need a courier', and it sounds like he's in a bit of a mood…don't worry, I'll catch up. Besides…this kind of stuff usually can wait a night or two…or I'll try to convince him it can," I considered and grinned for the benefit of the others. "Hey – maybe I can drag him along with us," I wonder how susceptible the boss-man is to charm spells – and how big his workload is. Nah –charm spells are for wimps when it comes to matters like this. Charm spells are for sheeple – call it a professional courtesy.

On the other hand – if he doesn't expect that sort of trick for a stunningly gorgeous assassin who has a date with a fantastic week-long string of parties that she'd been banking on for quite a while, then that's his own fault and he deserves what he gets. Besides: if he thinks he's having fun, he might end up having a little in truth –and that would be good for him.

"Uh-oh…I kind of feel sorry for Lucien…when she's walking around looking like that…that's a really sinister look you've got there, Sari…" Gogron said shiftily.

Antoinetta giggled and we women exchanged a look that indicated any sinister looks I might be wearing were the least of anyone's worries.

"_I_ don't," Tel said archly and hugged me. "Knock him dead, Sari," she whispered.

"No, I do that and I'll get my ass kicked," I chuckled, turning it into a joke. "Then he can't come to the party…though we may need to keep an eye open, in case the locals get too friendly with him."

This was greeted by uproarious laughs and I slipped out of the house, cursing the window which had once been such a great way to enter and exit a building. It's just a thing I have, about not liking to climb a ladder while wearing a dress –and climbing through a window in one is practically obscene. However, it was getting dark and as always, no one was watching the house. I shoved my bag out ahead of me and heard it 'thump' to the ground and I followed as carefully as I could, and once I was back on the ground I straightened my clothes, and touched the spray of jewels about my neck thoughtfully, feeling the cold stones and colder metal, and then took off at a brisk trot.

I can rent a horse – it'll make the trip faster and I am _not_ hoofing it all the way to Fort Farragut in my party clothes. They'll be ruined and then I have to go home, change, and come back to the party, by which point the party will be _over_. And I will have wasted this fantastic dress.

I know, I'm harping about it – but it is a fantastic dress, this is my first night wearing it and I only put this much effort into my looks a couple of times a year…and this time I did it because I _wanted _to – that doesn't happen often.

And I don't intend to miss the start of the festivities, nor the rest. It's been a good long while since I went to a party I didn't feel obligated to attend. This is the time to live it up. I like to dance, and look good. I plan to flirt and be charming and…vibrant…until I drop of exhaustion. Because it's back to business as usual for another half year, or so – until the next really big festival, and who knows? I might have to work for the next big festival.

Particularly if I get the reputation as party animal.

--S--

Fort Farragut was well outside Cheydinhal – but not so far that I didn't feel I could get to Harlun's Watch and meet up with the others in timely fashion.

What did bother me were the dark guardians that were crawling - and I mean that literally – out of the stonework as I entered through the front gates. I had bone-dust all over my dress by the time I got to the grate, on the other side of which stood the more normal, less violent sort of dark guardian. I'd cut my way through most of the door wardens with magicka, and had left soot marks all over the wall as I went – there would be no question as to who had virtually kicked the door down.

"I'm Sister-Assassin Sarielle, Lucien wanted to see me," I held up the black message and the guardian clattered his teeth. Unlike the guardians at home, that are prepared for a fight, this one was dressed exactly like a monk, only the cloth was black. He opened the grate and waved me in, clattering his teeth politely.

"Thank you," I put the message back up my sleeve and began to brush bone dust from my clothes. "Is Lucien even here?" I addressed the guardian, who promptly pantomimed that no, Lucien was not currently in his residence but that I should make myself comfortable while I waited.

When asked when Lucien would be back the only response I got was 'soon'.

Some help that is.

I was surprised, not just by the condition of Fort Farragut, but by the fact that I'd gotten here first. I had expected Lucien to be waiting for me to report in. Still, I bet he's not expecting me to be waiting here for him.

I looked around: Farragut doesn't give the impression of being lived in, nor is it as comfortable as the Sanctuary, or Deepscorn. It isn't even well-tended. There's dust gathering in the corners, and it really looks like Lucien doesn't spend a lot of time here. The living area is large, and had several doors and a hallway that branched off. The walls were hung with tapestries, and as I got closer, I realized they depicted not just horses, but horse myths.

There were two of interest to me – the first being captioned 'The Nightmare', the second 'Svadilfari: The Horse Who Built the Wall' – and they hung side by side. Both were black – Svadilfari looked incredibly strong, a powerful stallion, muscles rippling under his gleaming black coat, the Nightmare proud, winged and fierce, and there was something in the way her head tossed that put me immediately in mind of Shadowmere…

…These two tapestries are obviously enshrined –they're right above his alchemy bench. I wonder…

I continued to look around at the other horse-tapestries. This man loves his horses…makes me wonder: is it a hobby, or does it have something to do with the past? He obviously _knows_ his horses, if he's tamed Shadowmere…if 'tamed' is the right word, and I don't think it is. I looked back at Svadilfari.

He said he found her in Skyrim…Svadilfari sounds like a Nord name…

The alchemy bench is set higher from the ground than the one back home – obviously a custom job, so Lucien wouldn't have to hunch. I looked over it – a fairly organized affair, so unlike his desk. I didn't mess with anything, but it was hard.

I'm a neat-freak when it comes to my workbench.

Before the fireplace, right now cold and dead, was a padded bench, and set in a corner with books helves, was a large, comfortable-looking pair of unmatched chairs, one with a footrest, and a table by one arm. I pointed at the fireplace and spoke the sign with confidence, the sign to light the wood there. The spell leapt to my fingers and from fingers to full flame easily, and with only a token attempt to wrest itself free of my control. I'm getting better.

I continued to look around gain – Lucien takes this dark and sinister to a whole new level...what's with the cobwebs all over the place? I know it's important to keep up appearances outside the sanctuary. But in your own house? I'm not calling this a 'home'.

I settled into the big chair, draping myself over it like an expensive shawl, knees hanging over one armrest. I might as well be comfy, I get the feeling I'm going to be waiting for a while.

--S--

I was - waiting for a while, I mean. I heard a hatch – like the well entrance's – clang somewhere out of sight and overhead, and the thunk of a bag being dropped. A moment later the sound of a body landed nimbly. Then Lucien strode out, one hand massaging his brow, the other full of his bag of gear.

"Evander what…" he started.

I smiled as Lucien stopped. He turned sharply and I watched his hand go instinctively for the dagger at his hip. He had finally noticed that there was a fire going, and that he was not exactly alone. I wonder how long it's been since he had a lady this dressed up in his house. Just a little curious.

"Sarielle," he sounded disconcerted, and his eyes swept over me, lounging in the chair as if I had always been there.

I smiled: the unasked question was 'how did you get in?'. I got to my feet, as ladylike a possible. This is one comfy chair: it's built for someone along Lucien's lines – of course, it's his place, why shouldn't it be? – and so I'm able to lounge quite comfortable. "I let myself in," I produced the missive summoning me to the fort. "You said you needed to see me. I didn't like to keep you waiting. You might want to watch coming in the front door – I did a little damage to the stonework."

"I see. And the guardians, too, I suspect," he said and handed off his bag to the summoned guardian.

"Of course – you did warn me," I said innocently. "but…I do have to tell you this," I added lightly as I walked over to the alchemy bench and moved an instrument into a better line with its fellows, "you let this dark and creepy go to your head."

"Duly noted."

I looked over at him and turned to lean on the alchemy table, then levered myself up to sit daintily on it, crossing my knees. I only get away with this kind of behavior because I'm good, and Lucien knows it. "Just looking out for you, boss," I said sweetly, smiling. "I don't suppose I can convince you to come with me, and join the others for the party, once we're done talking shop? They're really like you to come."

Lucien looked genuinely pained – and I mean that, it looked as though I'd just told him someone had died – something he'd been half expecting, but was no more pleasant for it. "There's not going to be any parties for you, Sarielle. Not for awhile," he said very quietly.

And from his expression I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I slipped off the alchemy bench and tiptoed cautiously up to him. His face read bad news. A whole lot of bad news.

--Author's notes appended--

Nightmare: a mythical horse, used by Sierra games in King's Quest VI. A black, winged mare, who eats deadly nightshade, that traverses between Life and the Realm of the Dead. The character could only be bound by a mix of sulfur, and a strand of maiden's hair.

Svadilfari: The Horse that Built the Wall: In Norse mythology, the Wall around the city of Asgard was built by a giant in the guise of a man, and his Horse, Svadilfari. The promised price of the wall were the sun, moon, and goddess Freya. When it became apparent that the gods were going to lose the three things they cherished most, they turned to Loki – who had convinced them to agree to the terms in the first place – and told him to fix his mess. The Horse was lured of by a mare – believed to be Loki, oddly enough – and was also the sire of Sleipnir, Odin's eight-legged horse.


	51. Chapter 51

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. I know! No one wants to see the Purification happen – just stick with me!

--

Chapter Fifty: Prelude to Purity

--

"Those are funny work clothes," Lucien said when it became painfully obvious I was just going to stand there, staring at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. It seemed to me he had…or else something dreadful had happened…and if so, I wanted to know why he didn't just spit it out- because Lucien's not one to hedge words when need arises – or at least, that has never be my perception of him.

It was here that he really looked at what I was wearing, how I actually looked. I couldn't tell whether he approved the look – red is a daring color, and it's also a color I wear very well, being a brunette. Nonetheless, I tried to smile for him and failed, something cold and leaden was weighing me down, lodged in the pit of my stomach. I had a really, really, bad, terrible, horrible feeling – and not enough mind to spare to wonder if he thought I looked pretty. "Vicente approved," I said quietly, more to fill the silence than because it mattered.

My fingers found the ribbon laces of my bodice as my hands folded before me.

"Vicente has developed an eye for clothing," Lucien said. It was painfully obvious we were trying to make small talk to avoid whatever unpleasantness was looming, but the attempts were failing.

"Sarielle…" Lucien turned to face me, looking like he was trying to find the best way to tell me what was happening, when he stopped and blinked, his eyes flickering back and forth before settling on me again.

"What?" I blinked back at him.

Lucien was looking as though he couldn't quite place something, and that made sense a moment later.

"It might be my perfume," I said quietly, and held up my wrist. Assassins are notoriously aware of smells – particularly perfume or cologne, because it's not a natural smell. This bottle is, actually, pretty good. It's a relic of my teenage years but has always smelled pretty good on me – at least, I think so…and so I've been told, a long time ago. Either way, and regardless, it's not a smell that Lucien would know to associate with me, in the first place - like how I associate him with sandalwood.

Lucien took the offered wrist and nudged my sleeve back a bit to smell the skin. "What is it?" he asked, not looking at me, but taking in the scent, one deep lungful at a time.

I smiled a little. "Cherry blossom," it's common in Anvil, being a port town, but not every girl can wear it. Because perfume is and has always been reliant on the person wearing it. It can smell intoxicatingly fantastic on one person and be downright repulsive one another – of course, the amount of perfume being worn factors in too. The only perfume not like that, that I'm aware of, is Telvanni bugmusk, and you can _still_ have too much of it. But that's kind of obvious to people who know what it is.

And _I_ like this stuff better. And as I'm the one who's wearing it…

This was when I became _very_ aware that Lucien still had my wrist and was still calmly taking in the smell of the perfume.

I smiled a little more. I think he likes it… Looks like an ex wasn't lying to me after all…

Too bad as an assassin, I can't wear perfume all the time. That's one of the tradeoffs – you get to live the life adventurous, but you have to put aside some girly habits.

"Do you like it?" I asked softly, without teasing.

He nodded slowly. "It suits you." he released my wrist, as if coming out of something like a daze, and he was back to business as usual. "But – you're going to have to scrub it of soon…there's been trouble…"

"Trouble?" I felt my heart go cold and plummet towards my feet, and shatter on the floor as I stopped tugging my sleeve back into place. "It's it..."

He nodded.

"Bellamont…what's he done now? How bad…what do I need to do?" I peered up at Lucien, feeling caught between wanting to strangle Bellamont, and wanting to string him up like a…like a side of meat, and beat him without mercy – we'll take turns. I swallowed and set my jaw, and felt like a crystal glass that's been struck –resonating. I looked up at Lucien, cold anger in my eyes, all whimsy and joy of life gone. It's back to business, back to basics. "This has to stop," I said almost a snarl, looking at Lucien. He's not telling me something, that much is obvious…though whether it's because he won't or can't or just can't find the words, I don't know.

"It does," he agreed. "And it is more…the Hand's position than Bellamont himself."

"Do you have a plan?" I asked.

"No."

Darkness rolled across my vision and I felt for a moment as if my head had split down the center, and as if chisels had been driven between my brow ridge and my eyeballs. I gasped, tried to gasp for breath, in the unexpected pain and pitched forward. There was no air for a moment, then my lungs expanded and I mouthed wordlessly, my eyes rolling with pain…

My knees hit the hard stone, but I could feel Lucien gripping my arm. I felt sick, and my head was full of swirling fog and glittering mist. The whole world was spinning…and I felt queasy.

"Sarielle?"

"Yeah…I'm all right..." I slurred.

No, this isn't right…ugh…my vision cleared slowly, and the leaden feeling in my skull did not pass. I was lying on the ground, looking upwards. Lucien was kneeling near my head, and I reached back numbly, and found that despite my mental state, I had not struck my head against. I reached up and gripped Lucien's wrist for balance and tried to sit up, but that little attempt made me gasp and shake as reality pitched again, violently. I did the only thing I could: clutch at the only solid thing left in a world turned on its head – Lucien's wrist. The last bastion of what reality should be…

It's like I'm going to fall _upwards_, _spin_ right off the face of the planet. "I'm gonna fall up…" I managed to whisper hoarsely in sheer terror, and I slammed my eyes shut, hoping to dispel the disorientation.

"No, no you're not," his tone was very calm, reassuring, almost as solid as the wrist I was gripping. His other hand found my shoulder and pressed, warm against me. I felt my shoulder pinned between his hand and the floor, and I realized that was what he meant by it: to give me the sense of being anchored to the floor, until the dizziness passed.

I don't know how long it took for the world to realign. The dizziness passed, but the swirling white in my mind was slower to dissipate. "Okay…I think I can get up," I said and with that the hand on my shoulder slipped beneath me and helped me sit up, then cautiously let me go. I put out a hand for balance and only swayed slightly where I sat.

"All right, up you get," he pulled me to my feet, once I proved I could sit unaided, and he helped me stagger over to a chair. We were farther from it than I'd thought…how odd…

I was sweating and chilled and felt as if I'd just gotten a bad bout of cold. "This is gonna ruin…Midyear…"

"Sarielle, I'm going to have to be the one who really ruins your Midyear plans," Lucien said quietly, pulling over the other chair. "Get her something for her head, would you please?" Lucien asked in a low aside, presumably to one of his dark guardians.

A moment later said guardian returned and Lucien poured me a tumbler full of wine, and handed it over, his brows knitting together as if in worry.

I sipped at it, knowing that it would do me no good to fuss. It didn't clear my head but it helped a little, gave me something to focus on. "Why? What…ugh – we were talking about Bellamont…right?" I asked.

"That's right. It becomes…necessity…but take another moment to pull yourself together…you'll need…you'll need to be coherent."

I looked up, and tried to search his gaze, but he was giving away nothing. He had his gameface on, by now, and that makes him so hard to read. "Lucien what's…what's the matter?" my hand shook and I lowered the cup to rest on the arm of my chair, kept from toppling over only by my hand.

"Have you ever heard…of the Ritual of Purification?" he asked, ignoring his drink, swirling it about in the cup and watching the light play on it.

I've done that…once…in Vicente's office. I found my eyes drawn to the play of light, just as Vicente's had. I closed my eyes –the motion made the swirling in my head worse. Keep this up and I'm going to be sick. I opened my eyes again –closing them made the dizziness worse.

What is _wrong_ with me…? I'm no swooning damsel…

Like a dream coming into reality, coming into focus, the meaning of what I was seeing –that this was beyond my scope for 'bad' made my toes go cold. I could tell just by the sounds of the words, the weight that lurked behind them…and Lucien's expression of desolate hopelessness that this was Bad. Capital letter and all…worse, even…

"No…" my voice remained steady, but thin, as though I had just walked up to a dragon in the dark, and found out what it was by the smoke coming from its nostrils…and was trying to excuse myself politely, as if I'd simply entered the wrong house.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have," he gave a bitter sigh that might have been an attempt at a humorless laugh. "It's not something that the lower ranks of the Family know about- and with good reason," Lucien leaned back in his chair and lacing his fingers. He almost looked like he was ready to bow his head in prayer.

"Keeping secrets?" I asked a little shocked.

"All families have secrets, Sarielle. You know that better than most."

It was not a verbal slap, just a statement of fact. I bit my lip and set my jaw. What the hell?

"The Family is an ancient organization. We have survived for millennia. Sometimes, to ensure that survival, drastic measures are required."

"Lucien whatever this is, don't ask me to do it…" I couldn't stop the words. I already knew I didn't want to…I knew it would lessen me in his eyes, but I could tell just by looking at him that this was something that was just…

"I'm not asking you, Sarielle. I'm telling you."

It was like being slapped – whether that was his intent or not.

I closed my eyes and the cup tumbled from the arm of my chair to splash its contents and shatter on the floor, spinning glass everywhere. I drew my feet up and huddled in the chair, lips trembling. Please, please please….I can't do this…it's beyond me…I don't even know what it is…I don't even know what you _want_…but I can't do it…I _can't_…my eyes stung, and I touched the tears forming, shocked that they should be there, that I should react like this to the as yet unknown orders.

Except they weren't unknown…a word like Purification only has so many meanings…so many possible meanings…none of them good.

Lucien continued calmly – though…not true calm. This was forced-calm, as if he wanted to do as I was doing, try and huddle away from the horrible reality, but could not. He was a Speaker of the Black Hand, and must behave accordingly.

And that hurt too.

"The Purification is one of the most extreme measures we are forced to carry out. Indeed, it has only been carried out twice. Before now, that is – and not during my lifetime."

I closed my eyes and bit my lip, shaking my head. I always knew there would be a price to pay, for being good at my job…but I never imagined…this…I _can't_. I'm not _able_…

"The Five Tenets are the laws that guide and protect us. But, sometimes, even they must be broken to protect the sanctity of our beliefs."

I looked up, eyes flashing. "_That_ is a hypocrisy I never expected from you," I snapped, perhaps irrationally. But it was a hypocrisy…how can we hold anything sacred, if we don't hold to the most basic Tenants?

It's fratricide! It's _wrong_!

"Hold your silence," came the cold, slightly sibilant command.

I raised my chin, not quite daring him to do his worst, but not cowed either. I got slowly to my feet, not in challenge, but because I couldn't bear to huddle in a chair like a little terrified girl.

Lucien got up too, and once again, I had to look up to find his eyes, though this time, unlike the first, I felt no intimidation. Just a cold squirm in my stomach. I was caught between two things I didn't want to do: to test my mettle like this…and to destroy the others – and I knew that was where this was going…there was no other explanation…

"With a Purification, we cleanse the Family of mistrust and treachery. Those who are slain are offered to Sithis as a symbol of fealty. Do you understand? Their souls go straight to sit at the feet of our Dread Father..."

"Small comfort in knowing they'll be betrayed by me –and _you_ – like they'd be betrayed by Bellamont…what's the difference between him and us, now?!" I shouted, my voice reverberating off the walls, not hysterical but strong, challenging. My face was pulling as if it wanted to cry, but my mettle wouldn't allow it.

If I could get angry, _stay_ angry…but it wouldn't last. Anger flares and goes out – cold resolve, like the resolve looking back at me from behind Lucien's face…well, that sort of resolve isn't troubled by flares of anger, little outbursts.

I was given the coldest look I'd ever seen, and it froze me to the spot, my next volley died silent in my throat.

Lucien took two steps forward, which forced me to look up to meet his eyes, and I felt _dwarfed_. He didn't touch me, grab me or give me a shake to remind me who I was, and who he was, the force of personality was enough. "And, hopefully, we kill the traitor in the process – that _is_ usually the way. But, we both know that Bellamont is clever – too clever. The Hand has sanctioned this – neither I, nor you, can stop it. What we _can_ do, is twist it to our advantage. The first step towards Bellamont –for the killings will not stop, once this is done. Our beloved Brothers and Sisters however, will be removed from suspicion. All that takes is a little courage from you…" he stopped short.

Courage my ass.

"It is harsh…" he corrected himself, realizing how ill-chosen his last phrase was.

"Harsh?" I spat and felt my eyes sting. "Is there…no other way?" I looked up into the cold render of the features I knew so well and found it was only a mask. I could now see the chinks as plainly as I could see the little details that were so recognizable. "You can't want to do this either…" I said stupidly.

"'Want' has nothing to do with it, Sarielle."

"It's a waste of life...someone has to say 'no'! I'll do…"

Lucien had me gagged before the words finished, one hand on the back of my head the other clamped across my mouth, forcibly stilling the defiance. He leaned forward, so our faces were close – I could no longer see the room past him, and I glowered as best I could. "You aren't free of the Tenants just yet…can you not understand? I am trying to minimize the damages as best I can! Haven't you wondered yet why _you_ are being told to do this thing, instead of being left to the slaughter?" he asked sharply, but softly. If he were to speak at normal volume he'd be hurting my ears...

"N kno arr," I managed.

"Yes, you do," Lucien said, "but that's neither here nor there. Please," he took a brief moment to remaster himself, "watch your tongue – it is about to get you into a _lot_ of trouble," he carefully released me and stepped back, as if he expected me to come out swinging.

I'd never do it. I licked my lips and grimaced. Gloves leave a taste and it's not exactly pleasant. "Why me?" I asked, choosing to ignore for the moment that he had hit on the exact way to keep me from breaking the tenant about obeying the orders of a superior.

"Because you were inducted _after _Bellamont began his…activities," Lucien said measurably. "The Black Hand knows you are innocent…" but we both know there's nothing innocent about an assassin – better to say 'not guilty of this', but this is hardly the time to argue semantics. "it is _because_ you are innocent that you are being sent to do this. To prove your continuing good faith."

"But you know I…" I appealed. I'm weakening to this, and I hate him for it… hate myself even more…because he knows too much. He knows how to get me to bend to his will. Like a stubborn horse.

"Yes," Lucien sighed and sat back down, looking exhausted. "Please sit down, Sarielle," he sighed as with exhaustion and motioned to the chair, as if he didn't want to fight me on this anymore, but couldn't let me have my way.

"Is that an order, _Speaker_?" I asked nastily, spitefully even, then flinched.

"Orders rarely come with the word 'please'," he closed his eyes. "I did ask. You're free to stand."

I _wanted_ to be petty and petulant, but as it was very obvious that I was simply the more verbal about my dislike of the situation, that neither of us was happy about it…and despite the fact that I was angry at him, angry at myself, and my idiot-superiors…the spite was draining out, and with it, the urge to cause someone else pain, if I could.

I know he'd have fought this if he could. He's very close to us…and we are to him.

I sat down, without the usual show of being prim, or forced into something I didn't want to do. I just flung myself hopelessly into the chair, knowing he'd see the gesture for what it was – willingness. The foregoing of temper, pride, and posturing, is as close to an apology as I can give right now.

Anger continued to seep into the silence, dissipating like the fog in my head. I can count on one hand the times he's 'asked' me to do things. And that does count for _something_. "I'm listening, Lucien," I said quietly, but not cowed.

"Thank you. I've never met anyone with your sheer lung capacity," he said and reached up to rub a palm against one ear, as if to clear a ringing from it.

I gave a chuckle that sounded more like a sob, and swallowed hard.

"Sarielle, it has to be done. Gogron, Telaendril, Antoinetta, M'raaj, Ocheeva, Teinaava…and V-Vicente..." it cost him something to say it. With his eyes closed, his looked almost like I felt – bleakly exhausted, but pressing on because exhaustion would only prolong the inevitable. I saw in that verbal stumble, signing Vicente's death warrant, his mentor and friend…father-figure, even…would leave a wound in him as deep as killing the Family would leave upon me. We were neither of us going to walk away from this unhurt…and the blows would go deep. The sort that heal slowly, if at all. "All of them. It's the only way," this was as much to convince himself as me.

I felt my skin prickle, and I looked down. I wore this dress for a Midyear party…a string of parties…and now…"I understand," I said hazily, through a veil of tears. "When…?" I swallowed hard.

"Soon. Very soon," Lucien said quietly.

I continued to sit with my hands in my lap.

"Ocheeva promoted you to assassin."

"Yes," I said quietly.

"Don't get used to the title."

I nodded and closed my eyes, feeling hot tears slip down my face. Just two. One for me, and one for him…one for Vicente and one for Antoinetta, the two closest to me…like little drops of rain, to darken the material of my bodice and then disappear forever. Sort of like human lives…so short...shorter when you live in an assassins' guild.

"I am promoting you again."

I listened dumbly. I no longer wanted to shout, or scream. I wanted to soak here, in the feeling that time had stopped and just…cease to be. To fade out of time and memory.

"You asked me once what a Silencer was. The answer is: that you are a Silencer. You know how we are governed."

I nodded and feebly held up one hand. Four fingers and a thumb. I forced numb ears to listen, to take in meaning…but this was done without sight, without facial clues. They were just words hanging in the air…words that should have meaning, meaning I needed to understand.

"What is not commonly known is that..."

"Elrick." I said bleakly, looking up. The mask slipped from Lucien's face again – though whether it was because he didn't need it, or was having trouble maintaining it, I don't know. I don't care –at the moment what was on his face was what was on his mind, his heart even.

"…yes, Elrick was my last Silencer," Lucien said quietly. "Banus Alor – whose face you so magnificently rearranged – is another. No mere Eliminator as you were told at the time…but a Silencer. The personal assassin of one of the members of the Black Hand."

I opened my eyes and looked up, to find Lucien regarding me with a sort of…regret, almost. He's still human…I can't tell, though, if it's regret at what must be done, or regret that it's me that has to do it. Dedicated Family member that I am, it's like cutting off my own arm for no reason, this thing I'm being told to do.

I crossed my arms across my chest.

"As every hand has fingers, does not every finger have a nail? A claw? A talon? Every finger of the hand, every Speaker, has such a nail – our Silencers, our private assassins, to extend our various reaches and strike forth as necessary."

I nodded. 'As necessary' indeed. I swallowed hard, but numbness was settling over me. I'm going to do this, I know. And it wasn't for love, or for justice, or for anything. I was doing this…because I was being _told_…I was doing this, in my own search for justification, to eventually ensnare, entrap Bellamont.

A burn of shame started in the pit of my stomach.

But right now...stopping Bellamont seems like such an iffy, faraway future, oi something like _this_ was required…some costs are too high.

"It is…an honor without equal."

So what was the Imperial Prison? Adamus Phillida? I don't need to be someone's gopher to feel honored. Just look at my achievement wall…but the flare of anger did not last. Something was tugging at me to give assent, to get up and obey, and the longer I waited the more persistent it got. "You know…that I'll do as you say. But I don't like it."

"I don't like it either," Lucien said quietly.

I got to my feet, slowly, a little stupidly and looked around. "I'll be back," I headed for the back entrance.

"Sarielle?" I stopped short of the ladder and turned to look at Lucien, still in his chair, his expression an attempt at calm to hide the tortured reality. "Make it painless."

I climbed up the ladder without a word, feeling leeched of warmth and color, like a ghost walking about.

I can't believe I'm going to do this.


	52. Chapter 52

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. This is it – it was hard to write, for so many reasons.

--

Chapter Fifty-One: Purity

--

Have you ever heard how, when in the grips of a bad situation, a bad moment, people say 'I could have been there a few minutes, or even a few hours'? The sun was already creeping up when I left Fort Farragut, with the mission pounding in my ears.

--S--

"Sari!" Antoinetta's deprecating shout greeted me as I threw myself into my bunk.

"Now now, Antoinetta...please..." I whimpered and vanished under my blankets.

The bed shifted as Antoinetta immediately sat down and touched the lump that was my shoulder. "Sari…are you all right...nothing…nothing bad happened?"

I knew what she was asking. "No, Antoinetta, I'm…I'm not hurt," I said. But this was a lie. "It was just…a really hard bit of work," or will be. I can't believe I'm going to do this. "Now please, Antoinetta, I'm tired – just go away…" my voice broke and I curled into a tighter ball, until my stomach muscles protested. I bent my head until my neck muscles pulled uncomfortably. My breath came shaky, but I did not cry – I felt as though my tears had all drained out while I wasn't looking.

"But Sari, you were gone all week! I was really getting..."

I sat up so quickly that Antoinetta started. "A week?" I demanded, shocked. "That's not..._possible_…"

"It is," Antoinetta said, looking anxious. "That's why I was starting to worry. Vicente said that if Lucien had errands for you, then you could be out for awhile, but…but that's not usual. And we had a party – he _knew_ that! I guess your pretty dress was wasted after all…" she trailed off, peering into my face.

"I'm sorry, Antoinetta, I'm just not feeling good," I said, hoping she'd just give up and let me be. "And I've still got so much to do…"

"Oh, right," Antoinetta reached up and put a hand over my shoulder. In that moment she seemed so childlike that it was taking every ounce of fortitude I possess not to burst into tears. "Hey – you two didn't have a fight, did you?"

I shook my head. "No. Like I said, I'm just tired…and I've still got so much to do…"

Antoinetta got up and I flopped back down. I felt her readjust my blankets and then pat my ankle before the lights went out.

A week? How have I lost a week? I know I wasn't arguing with Lucien for a week – that would be ridiculous…but…nnng…my head feels so funny…maybe I passed out….no, I don't think I did…

I'll just sleep it off. As far as I'm concerned…I can just sleep forever. Then maybe I won't have to do this.

--S--

I did do it.

And it will be my eternal shame – good of the Family or not…I'm no better than Bellamont. I hope the Hand is happy.

I followed Lucien's advice and picked off Tel while she was near Leyawiin.

A week. Where had it gone? I remember quite clearly the timeline my visit to Lucien followed…and nowhere could I have lost a week…and even if I had, for the sake of argument…what would I have _done_ with it?

It was like having part of my stomach ripped out, and being left to bleed to death. She didn't see me hit her – she didn't realize why she'd died –she just…had. I didn't take her out from a distance, just sneaked up behind her and…

_Shhkh_.

I stalled getting back to Cheydinhal. Or tried to. I couldn't decide if giving myself time to get used to the idea would help…or if I should just get it all over with, like an unpleasant chore. I've never had much that one could call 'conscience' about killing people. Since joining the Brotherhood, I discovered it simply doesn't bother me. Wolves kill sheep every day.

But this was different and it truly seems a danger that this will drag me down, strangle me, even.

--S--

The Sanctuary was almost empty. Already the others were dead – I took them silenced and sleeping. They'd been drugged without realizing it, and had retired insanely early. I'm just lucky they were all here, and that I didn't have to go looking for anyone, past Telaendril….

Painless and quiet. That's the key – painless and quiet. I don't want them to suffer any more than need must – and far less than I. There must be distinction between Family…and everyone else.

Schemer was lock in the barracks just now – I could hear him scratching at the door. I still needed to finish Vicente…the one person that I'm not sure I can kill.

I hefted my wreath of garlic, purchased topside earlier just for this moment, onto my shoulder.

Vicente's highly allergic to garlic. It'll keep him quiet…because I don't trust my magicka on someone with almost twelve times my life experience. It doesn't seem safe.

I stopped before the heavy doors and listened. Is he still asleep? It's a little early for him…

I eased the door opened and slipped in.

He was lying quiescent on his bed, there was no rise and fall of breath. I looked around – the room was dark – though I couldn't actually tell, I had nighteye active, as I needed to be able to see without fail. The room was full of curious things – funny little doodads, a bench that looked like it belonged to a tinker…his guitar on a stand…books and things.

I walked over to him and set the wreath about his face if he woke, if he sat up, it would slip around his neck.

Vicente stirred and began to shift, trying to throw the garlic wreath off.

My hand shook and I stepped back, seeing the red shine from beneath his eyelids, as he clawed first at the bedclothes, then with the dexterity of a sleeper just-wakened, he reached for the wreath. His fingers found the garlic- the hateful, irritating garlic – and his eyes popped open, he blinked in disorientation and then hissed – a feral, inhuman sound and sat up, struggling to move. Then he caught sight of me, bloody knife in hand, weighted down by all the sorrow in the world…but I don't think he saw that.

What he saw was me, the knife, and the garlic. You didn't have to be an archmage to take it from there.

His eyes flickered to the wreath about his neck. "Garlic…" he breathed, as if unable to believe that _I_ would ever…would _dare_ to bring that cursed stuff anywhere near him….his eyes flashed.

I watched the change come over him, the face thinning, the eyes burning. I stepped back, but only to brace my feet, my face set in an attitude of one who is about to burst into tears, given reason. "_You_…?" it was a malediction, for the ultimate betrayal. Vicente surged to his feet, anger giving him strength, but he stumbled slightly, the garlic leeching his strength. "What filth…" I wasn't sure if he meant me or the garlic, but he reached up to take it off.

"I'm sorry Vee…" I whispered, raising my free hand, two cloves of garlic remained with me – I could use them to hold him at bay if I needed to. Ugly red patches and spatters were forming on his shoulders, where the garlic's oils touched his skin.

Vicente's eyes burned in their sockets as he shifted – he was going to make a fight of this, but he was having trouble getting the wreath of garlic _off_. I could see him trying to calculate out how to come out the better in this fight – he was unarmed, his sword stood proud and cold in its stand on the other side of the bed, and I always had my knife. His eyes narrowed, and I could see them shining through the thin lids of his eyes. "Not _nearly_ as sorry as I am," and I knew that he meant 'not nearly as sorry as I am, for training you'.

I swallowed, and felt the wound that blow made open up, and gush.

_I'm sorry, Vee. _

_I'm so sorry. _

--S--

I collapsed in the common room, right in the middle of the floor. Schemer was still shut up in the barracks – safe from the chaos. I turned and felt the telekinesis spell M'raaj Dar had…

Well, the door opened and Schemer came streaking out, straight to me, and jumped up into my lap, heavy and very real. His whiskers aquiver and his little sides heaving. I reached down and wrapped him in a tight embrace, holding his furry shoulder to my cheek, fighting the urge to break, to split right along the seams.

I hurt – the knocks I took from Vee, who had put up a heroic fight, don't even start to compare – I feel like the soul has been _ripped, stripped_ from me, leaving a bloody hollow where it ought to be...I clutched Schemer close, as if he could somehow ease the pain.

At one point, I had intended to finish him off too, make a clean job of it…he surely knew the others were dead, and might even figure out who had done it. But I didn't have the strength, or the fortitude for it.

I didn't have the strength, fortitude or power to kill an oversized _rat_. The guardians…sure - they lay in heaps of bony disarray already…they would have tried to stop me – succeeded even - and three on one are bad odds. I looked at the pile of bones that had been Tag – my favorite of the three, and my eyes stung.

I surged to my feet, clumsy as a newborn foal and collapsed before I ever got to standing, releasing Schemer who bolted from the rough treatment.

I lay there, my cheek pressed against the cold, slightly gritty stone and curled up on my side, arms pulled tight about my torso, horror welling up in me, like blood on the edges of a wound. I don't cry often, but I cried now. Cried and shrieked and screamed and thrashed like one in the throes of insanity. No doubt, if anyone hears the ruckus, they'll assume that 'That House' is haunted…it'd be a good cover, if there was anyone here left to…

--S--

I rolled to my back, once the fit passed, my head full of pain and fog and a deep desire to simply cease to be. It had been growing for several days, to just let my unhappy soul drift in the darkness…I closed my eyes, and let darkness and silence fall over me, like a blanket…but a stifling blanket.

My eyes popped open and I stared up at the ceiling as I reached, groped for the Blade of Woe – for it was she who had struck the killing blows…I found her hilt, lying neat and sedate nearby, cool to the touch, but friendly, familiar, reassuring. I rolled to my knees and looked at the blade…then closed my eyes and held the weapon to my throat and for a few minutes wrestled with the action of driving it into my throat...but the blow didn't come, despite the tears that began to flow again from my tired eyes.

I simply _couldn't_, and shame welled up, hot, burning and corrosive again as I flung the blade aside fiercely. She hit a wall and clattered to the floor…the noise was almost deafening in the silence…

…Why had I been using the Blade of Woe at all? Usually she's there for luck, for familiarity…because she's part of my gear…and I don't like to leave her at home…

Sufferthorn would have made a quicker, better job of it…that was when I noticed. My Sufferthorn….it wasn't in its sheath where it belonged, my fingers met with only air and leather…it was…gone…

Heart pounding in my wounded throat, I reached up and wiped away the blood from the mark the Blade of Woe had left in my white throat. I struggled to my feet, clumsy in something near to panic. I had to have it…it was…it had emotional value.

I walked over to where the Blade of Woe lay and bent over to reclaim her, picking her up gently off the floor. I never should have thrown her. Running one finger down the length of her tang, I mumbled what was probably an apology to her for the unnecessary rough retreatment…but the fog in my mind was spinning, swirling like a maelstrom in the ocean.

I fled to the barracks and tore the place apart – careful not to disturb the fallen dead – but nowhere…nothing…the blade simply was nowhere to be found. I searched for hours, and finally was forced to accept that it was simply…not here.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, like the blade had just been driven into it, as the silence settled around me.

Suddenly I couldn't stay here…I can't stay here…There's too much death, the stink of betrayal…my own being the worst of it. I gathered my belongings, leaving the armor and weapon from Deepscorn Hollow in the footlocker. I don't want them…I'm not even sure I want anything else, except to be loosed from this misery of life.

Part of me wondered if, when I got back to Farragut, I'd find that death had indeed come for me.

But I know better than to hope that.

If Lucien wanted me dead, he'd have done it earlier, no witnesses, nothing, and spared me this misery. Because an assassin he may be…but needlessly cruel he is not. I don't want believe that this was all just a way to break me. It certainly has.

"Schemer," I rasped as I stood by the well entrance. I wasn't going to just leave him here. Who would feed him? I can't kill him….and to just leave him would sentence him to death slow and painful…

Schemer still came when I called, and I picked him up, secure under one arm and started up the ladder. I'll take him back to Farragut - Lucien can look after him. Or…Or his dark guardians can.

Lucien…

Can I even _look_ at him the same way, knowing the orders he's given me? Can I still believe that there's such a thing as 'love for the Family', now that I know what's been…

…well, I suppose, in a twisted way…no! It's _not_ okay, it will _never_ be okay…but…but I understand where he stands.

I don't like it…but I like even less that he –and therefore I – have been put in this situation…I _saw_ the suffering on Lucien's face…is this going to make me cruel as well? No…no, Bellamont would want there to be a…a schism…a break…to chip off the last bits of cohesion and cast them to float, alone and easy prey, in the sea of uncertainty…that little bastard…I wish Bellamont a week in Oblivion without a weapon for this. Then I want his leftovers.

Anger kindled helped, a little. At any rate, my composure was steady when I set off on foot into the hills, heading for Farragut, wading through the fragrant grass, the warm night air…but none of this actually touched me. It was just grass and heat – not something to be savored and enjoyed, something that simply _was_. I didn't bother with a horse – I was not sure I'd need one. To my mind…everything begins and ends at Farragut.

Schemer fell asleep within a few minutes of walking in the grassy plains, snoring softly, rat-fashion as I trudged forward, my gear getting heavier and heavier, weighing me down like the guilt that lay like dregs of tea in a cup, at the bottom of my heart. I could smell the blood from the Sanctuary still on me – even though I'd made sure that there wasn't any on me, before leaving…I had, hadn't I?

Of course I had- that's a standard procedure for me – clean up before you go out. Dawn was coming up over the edge of the world, but I ignored it.

The world seemed a bigger, colder place as I wandered through the dewy grasses, the dead bodies of my family rotting in a forgotten place...

I nearly turned around to go back, to give them the burial rites they deserved, though I scarcely know how…but something stopped me. A powerful push to go back to Farragut, to make my report.

Fear…I've never feared corpses.

No, not corpses. _Ghosts_. Images of the _Serpent's Wake_ swam before my eyes. But…they didn't know…there's no way they could…unless…

My mind shuddered, faltered and went silent. I resumed what felt like a death-march to Farragut.

I'll talk to Lucien about it. He's not so stuck on this idea that he'd deny them their rest…I want to believe he's upset too…

He'd seemed upset…but…but can I be sure? Can I be sure of _anything_ I once thought I knew?

Can I ever trust him…or anyone else, myself included…ever again?

--

--Author's notes appended--

POOR VICENTE! Cruel garlic! Next chapter will have something like fluff in it...I promise.


	53. Chapter 53

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.

Okay - I was going to leave you all hanging for a few days, but I wound up feeling like such a heel! So here – the promised fluff, and insight into human nature.

--

Chapter Fifty-Two: Aftermath

--

Too hard.

It hurt too much. My face was calm, but inside I was screaming. I might as well have driven Sufferthorn into my breast every time I'd whittled down the Sanctuary by one. I was surprised and even angry to find that my hand remained steady as a rock as I knelt and lifted the hidden hatch that led to Lucien's apartments in Fort Farragut.

I felt disgusted with myself – I hadn't even bothered to clean up – I had violated my own rule about cleaning up – the smell of blood hung so thick in the air around me…I don't think that anything will ever pierce it…and the whole world will smell it, and they'll know what I am…what I've done…

I'm such a mess, and I know it.

My bag hit the bottom and I turned, slipping in after it. I didn't just drop to the bottom, I would have done that had I been exhilarated, come back from a perfectly executed mission…

…but not from this…this _perversion_.

I climbed sedately down like a civilized person…except that…that I don't think I am anymore…and because I had Schemer, riding in my hood, sleeping, his furry side beating gently against my neck as he breathed.

That sadistic part of me wanted, irrationally, to make Lucien feel half the horror I felt. To swear and shout and rage that he hadn't the courage to do it…he'd sent a pretty little Assassin to do it. His dirty work. Because he lacked the courage…but had the gall to send someone else into the ever-open arms of suffering in his place…

But…at the same time…I couldn't bring myself to do it. Any of it. I'd shouted and struggled and railed like a fox in a trap already. I had showed spite, and nastiness already and it had done nothing to help, to prepare me, to soften the blow…it only brought more pain.

More so now.

Because as the horror welled up in me, threatening to overflow…I knew he'd suffer too. Was suffering now. I had _seen_ it. I _had_ seen it – when he'd asked me to sit down, instead of telling me to do it.

_I am trying to minimize the damages as best I can! Haven't you wondered why you are being told to do this thing, instead of being left to the slaughter?_

But he _had_ sent me to do it. Knowing what it would do to me. Knowing that the irrational, dedicated part of me would want to try and stop him, if he did it. And then I'd be just as dead. And then there would be only one. It was a classic case of 'save as many as you can', just as he'd said.

I shall…try…to be grateful for my life.

I let go of the last rung I needed as I reached the bottom and touched the bloody mark on my throat, where I had failed to drive the Blade of Woe through. I still was not sure if it was the enchantments upon her that had stopped her…or some part of me, some strong part of me, that was not willing to give up. That was not willing to forfeit the chance to make Bellamont suffer, as I suffer. More, even.

I hope Lucien has a good plan, or I'm going to make a valid…

Who am I kidding? Trying to kid? I couldn't even kill the _rat_. He's still sleeping in my hood.

I clanged a hand carelessly against the metal ladder, which I'd descended so quietly, like a shadow, to herald my appearance. I undid my cloak and wrapped Schemer securely in it. He stirred, but did not wake.

Lucien was sitting at his desk, but he wasn't working. In fact, it was the first time I had ever seen any desk of his orderly. His hands were folded, his head bowed. He almost looked like he was praying. I stopped halfway between his desk and the entrance I had used.

Sufferthorn was lying on the desk by his elbow. How could I have left it here? That's unlike me…I use Sufferthorn as my main weapon…

I meant to hail him, to let him know I was here, but my throat wasn't working. I simply handed Schemer off to the dark Guardian who shuffled forward to take my things. The guardian pulled the cloth back, exposing the rat's head, and then tucked him gently in one arm, and stroked a bony finger along the rat's skull, and bowed slightly.

_We will take care of him_.

Lucien pushed himself back from the desk and rose, to cross the room.

The guardian shuffled over to Lucien, who paused only long enough to look at Schemer, then his eyes found my face, but I couldn't meet them. My eyes grew heavy as I stood there, most aware of the in out, inhale-exhale of my own breathing, and the painful tightening of vocal cords.

I didn't move, as Lucien approached me, very cautiously. In the back of my mind, I recognized this approach. I've seen horse-hands do it, when the animal is frightened, or otherwise overwrought. Does it work on humans? The fog in my head was too thick.

He could have been bearing down on me, truly angry, and I would have held my ground and looked dumbly, brokenly back at him.

I felt as if my head was in a bag, and all that was left to me was a very basic sense of what not to do. And right now, I was not going to move. I'll stand here, marble white and feeling blood spattered, blood _drenched_ until I had orders…something was broken. Something that could not be fixed.

"Well?" Lucien asked, quietly. I knew from his tone that he was pulling himself together - I still was staring brokenly at the floor between us, counting and not counting the stones that marked the way.

I didn't care. I couldn't. I didn't have a heart left to care _with_. But he'd asked a question – and he'd expect an answer. "It's done," my voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried like a clap of thunder over rolling plains. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, feeling pain throb between my temples.

"Painless?" Lucien's voice asked, still quietly, still careful not to alarm.

"As you willed," It hurt to say it…but I couldn't say 'as you asked'…I swallowed and felt my eyes sting painfully. I had no more tears left to cry, and yet I knew there would never _be_ enough tears to assuage the pain, the guilt, the terrible truth that I…_I_ had single-handedly destroyed everything…almost everything…I loved.

I opened my eyes again and looked up until I found his boots. I couldn't raise my leaden eyes any further…and a few moments later, I found I could, but not without great personal cost. It was almost worth it to just keep staring at the floor.

Lucien turned. His mask of composure had chinks in it – gaping holes that showed that while he was better at keeping himself together, he was hurting.

Ashes. I closed my eyes again and let them drop, felt my shoulders and head lose all tension. It's all ashes.

Bellamont's won…and he hasn't even…hasn't even made the worst blow.

Lucien walked over. "Are _you_ hurt?" he asked, warm concern creeping into his voice.

Am I hurt, he asks. Do I look okay? Of course, you can't see the wounds but they _are _there I _assure_ you…

Petty. Mustn't be petty. He wouldn't ask if he didn't care…in one way or another.

Even this little winding-up of anger made my head blossom, explode with pain.

I reached up, numbly, and touched a sticky patch on my check. My hand came away smeared with black blood, thicker than human. Argonian. I looked at my hand and swallowed hard - and it hurt enough to make my eyes sting and ache. But there were no tears. Not a drop of salt water left in me. "It's not mine," it shouldn't even be there...I thought I'd washed up before leaving…I always was up after a contract…always…it's part of my ritual…

…no, I hadn't. I've gone over this already.

I couldn't raise my voice any louder than that 'just above a whisper' tone. I couldn't look him in the eye, because I knew if I did I'd find no strength. No comfort. I was alone, in a very dark place, and it chilled my blood, to the point of making the tendons in my arms ache.

I look back at my hand, at the dark blood dotted across it, but that was not what had my attention. My gloves and bracers were gone, and the fabric of the clothing I wear beneath my leathers was dark and sticking to my arms.

Lucien took my wrist gently, his thumb resting in my palm to keep control of my hand in case I reacted badly…but the motions were calm and competent and oddly reassuring. At least my nerves still worked, I could feel the warmth of his touch, even though it failed to touch _me_. He peeled the fabric back, his expression indicating he was trying to be as careful as possible, knowing what he'd find.

There were deep gashes running crisscross and helter-skelter. The flesh not bloody showed red dots, or speckles, clustered like stippled clouds. The wounds were all wrong for a knife.

It took me a few minutes longer than it did for Lucien to realize _what_ I had done. It wasn't a knife – I had scored my arms open with my own fingernails. I don't remember doing it…it must have been while I was thrashing around on the floor, trying to vent pain that was too much for one person to bear.

I couldn't take the sight of any more blood, any more injury – it didn't matter whose it was. It didn't matter how well-deserved.

Lucien's fingers found the bloody mark on my throat and I swallowed under the touch. "This is," what he meant was 'this is yours', and his dark eyes clouded.

I reached up numbly, trying to make sense of too much information, knocking clumsily into his fingers as I found the bloody mar. My hand brushed the injury before Lucien wrapped it in his, as if he saw something in me that I was not yet aware of. The little mark wasn't even as wide as my fingernail, but it suddenly hurt…or maybe it was my throat behind it…or both… "Sweet Night Mother…what have I _done_…?" I couldn't help it, melodramatic as it sounded, and I felt a new, fresh, stronger surges of pain, horror, terror well up and wash over me, threatening to throw me to the ground and choke the life right out of me.

Lucien's loose grip on my arm became tight, painfully tight and the second arm began to scream in pain as well, and the world – which tried to spin – the erratic motion slowed in face of the discomfort. He had both my wrists and I yelped and instinctively tried to stagger back, but he didn't let me.

I tried to shout out, whether in an attempt to isolate myself, or to vent a hurt that ran deeper than any I'd ever suffered…I don't know. Both maybe, but still, it was a sound I tried to cut short. His grip _hurt_, but somehow I'm sure that if it didn't, I won't feel it, it won't register: the warm hands against my damaged wrist, regardless of the blood that was no doubt getting all over him…

I choked and began to shake, to convulse. Lucien let go of my off hand, and grabbed my chin, made me look at him. I found his eyes, and found that once I had, I couldn't look away. There was no coldness, no sign of masking, or anything. Just a warm brown pair of eyes. A normal person's eyes, even…

"You did," he said firmly, his voice very husky, as if he wanted to believe this as much as I needed to, "what you had to do. Nothing more. Nothing less."

I tried to shake my head no…that wasn't true - it _isn't_ true! If I had done what was _needed_, I'd have found the bastard…served him up to the Black Hand with steamed vegetables and strong wine…I'd have slit his treacherous throat and left the corpse staked out with a sign nailed to his remains 'TRAITOR' for the whole empire to see…

I was shaking harder.

I heard Lucien's voice but not the words – not looking at his mouth, I couldn't even read what he was saying. He had let my chin go, I realized, because as I bowed my head, I reached my off hand up to cover my mouth, and there was nothing there to block the gesture. His hand found my shoulder and I looked up again, when I distinguished my name in all the meaningless sound that passes for speech these days.

"Sarielle."

He didn't say anything more than that – maybe because I still couldn't answer. A moment passed and then he carefully –as if unsure whether I'd snap and try to kill him – reached around me and drew me against him, letting me settle my head in his shoulder. I continued to shake, but not to cry. I was out of tears – I had shed them in a haze of pain, both physical, mental, emotional, that bordered on madness.

It did not numb the pain, holding me, letting me hold him back – and I know no binding corset was ever as tight as my grip. But it helped to feel like I was not the last person, thinking, feeling, screaming, left in the world. I don't know how long we were standing there. It could have been several centuries, but time no longer mattered. He would let me stand there until _I_ was ready to be let go, however long it took. And it helped, some, to feel like there was still someone stronger than myself.

I could count heartbeats. I'm the only one wearing armor. I shifted my head so my ear lay flat against him. One. Two…Three…very even, measured…regular.

Time was something that I used to play with – how long until I can do this? How much time does it take for me to complete that? Shave off seconds for the sake of smooth efficiency…

I closed my eyes, but not for what would be welcome –the oblivion of sleep. He was warm – though I couldn't feel that though my armor. Warm and safe…My grip was slackening slightly, less a death-grip and closer to something that might be called 'normal'.

Sooner or later the analytical part of my mind started to function again.

It started with identifying whatever Lucien's soap smelled like, through the smell of blood that hung around me like a noxious cloud. I know the smell – it's something…Sandalwood. I had a small sandalwood box in my bedroom, in Anvil. It was in my bag now. It was the first smell, I realized, that pierced the cloud of blood that seemed to have settled in my nostrils. For indeed, upon identifying 'sandalwood' the smell of blood faded to something in the background, to what a normal person would be able to smell – just the faintest hint of it, from my wrists and throat.

I'm getting blood all over his…this nice, soft shirt. I shifted my cheek against the soft, woven material…it's black. I half-opened my eyes as a hand touched my temple gently, then returned to my shoulder. The magelights are low in their brackets…so as not to hurt tired, sensitive eyes…that's very thoughtful…thank you…I tightened my grip marginally, tangling my fingers in the fabric, feeling them brush against the warm, solid shape beneath, hoping to convey this without words.

This was when I realized that Lucien could probably still smell my perfume. Cherry blossoms.  
Part of me wondered, inanely, if he liked it. But it was a distant wondering. It didn't matter…did it? Something…sparked in me – as if there was some flicker of life that had not yet gone out, and this little thought was enough to give it the strength to try and light the tatters of my soul, like curtains in the burn heap, to rekindle.

Lucien shifted, I think he moved so he could see me a little better, though I was still blocking out the world. I'd never be in this position in the real world...and I knew as that thought trickled into my head that I would have to let go soon…and face the real world. Without strong arms, without this…comfort.

I swallowed. I don't want to.

"Sarielle?"

"Yes." It was not a question. I was surprised how empty word was. It might have been a single word, in its own paragraph, on a sheet of paper.

Yes.

I was coming back to myself. I looked up, moved my eyes towards the ceiling then with an effort I unwrapped my arms from around Lucien and stepped back, swallowing hard. He let me go, hands at the ready, just in case I staggered.

I stepped free, unhindered. It was so hard…pride would keep me standing on my own, keep me from flinging myself back at him, keep me from continuing to block out the world from the very last safe place Cyrodiil has.

But, I'm free again. And I'm alone again…and pragmatism returns. I grimaced and peeled my sleeves back carefully. The injuries to my wrists and forearms were still red and raw and, I discovered, circled around near my elbow. I might even scar from this.

Now that I was standing back, Lucien didn't try to help, or see if I was all right – he could _see_ plainly that I was hurt. I'm not the kind of girl to get weak knees…even now. I looked up from the injuries and found his face, with less difficulty than it previously took. "What now?" my voice was barely a whisper, finding his eyes and silently praying that there would be a plan…something more than emptiness, ashes and wastelands in the ruined landscape of my life.

Whatever he saw in me, he didn't like, but it was more of a sad sort 'didn't like' than disapproval.

"We need to talk," he said quietly.

"Right," I listlessly followed him towards a corner with a pair of chairs and a small table. He checked twice en route to make sure I was following him, and I was. Bobbing along like an obedient terrier.

I sat down and waited.

Then Lucien sighed and got up, shaking his head. "It can wait. Evander," the dark guardian who had taken Schemer reappeared.

"Put Sarielle's bag in the bathroom," he looked back to me. "Sarielle?" I looked up and blinked once. "If you follow Evander, there's a bathroom just down that hall," he pointed, as if speaking to someone very young, or very slow. I certainly felt like both, and was vaguely grateful that he wasn't trying to talk to me like I was an intelligent adult. I just don't feel like one. "You can go get cleaned up and changed. You'll feel a little better."

I stood up obediently and then looked up, for a moment my metaphorical head broke the surface of the sea of misery. "Schemer…?" I was half-afraid I had made an error in bringing him here.

Lucien gently reached forward, took my arm and guided me to face the general direction, where Evander stood waiting, my bag now over his shoulder. "He'll be fine – I'll take care of him," he assured me gently. "Go ahead and get cleaned up – you look about done in," he let of go of my arm and gave me a little nudge in the back and I started forward, following Evander, without free will.

I filled the bath, heated it, and watched Evander putter around for a moment, producing a couple of thick towels, and pantomiming he'd bring me a strong drink, if I liked.

"Just tea, thank you," I said hoarsely, and waited until he'd returned with the tea, then left again. I reheated the water, then closed and locked the door, from the inside. I leaned against it, and then straightened, mindlessly undressing and climbing into the bath.

The hot water helped shock me out of my apathy.

I have nothing left to…

I hissed as my arms submerged. And a whimper of pain escaped me, torn from my throat.

It hurt I hurt _it_ _hurt_ and _that_ shook me back to myself. I looked into the water, swirling red from the blood of the injuries. I was breathing hard from the pain that was beginning to ease.

My arms are a mess…how do you _do_ that to yourself…?

I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Focus was fleeting, but when I opened my eyes, the wounds looked several days old, already beginning to close and scab. I sank back into the water, and then picked up my tea and sipped it.

I was getting tired….so very very tired. I shouldn't feel this tired…

--S--

I finally hauled myself out of the bath, feeling exhausted in a way that I had never felt. I dressed, just normal clothes, linen and cotton – no leather armor, no weapons, except the the belts, which I slung over one shoulder. I re-upped my cherry blossom perfume. I needed the comforting smell, even if no one else did. I used more than I usually would, so I could smell hazily the scent hanging about me – not choking…just more noticeable. And it was comforting - it reminded me of having been pretty, and happy, what felt like a very long time ago.

I had taken the time to braid my hair out of habit. I know it'll dry slower, but I'm not in the mood to have it get tangled up again, either. And in the moment when Lucien looked up at me from where he sat, behind the desk that faced the corridor I had to walk…I thought I saw the faintest, telltale gleam of magenta receding from his eyes.

He wouldn't…would he? Something feebly stirred in the back of my mind, the bottom of my heart….or the pit of my stomach. Or all three. Hope?

I bit my lip – there was nothing there but the usual brown, and the vague flutter in my chest died quietly as fatigue resettled like a heavy cloak across my shoulders. Died like the rest of me would, if I couldn't find a way to revitalize myself.

"Yes?" he asked gently.

"Nothing," I shook my head and heaved a heavy sigh.

I walked over and stood by the alchemy bench, hands resting on the worn, silky-smooth surface. It was not a 'finished' piece of furniture, but something that someone had sanded down to smoothness with sandpaper - the hard way. It was some distraction to me, to imagine Lucien with several inches of sandpaper - used and unused – piled up on either side, trying to get this stupid table smooth and level so it would not set his reagents rolling around. I'm not saying he _built_ it –he's not wood-crafter, that I know of…but you don't have to be to sand something down.

"You should get some rest," Lucien's voice advised – still using that horse-calming tone of his.

I wonder…did he have something to do with horse-breaking as a boy? He certainly does seem to know a lot about them…and he keeps their stories close to home. I looked up at the tapestries of Nightmare, and Svadilfari.

Shadowmere's sire and dam…?

"I'm not tired," I answered blankly. This is not strictly true. What is true is that I don't believe that I can sleep, even if I wanted to. Even if I downed my whole bottle of sleeping draught. The bench was set just a little high for me – it was evidently set up to be comfortable for the one who used it most – unlike the workbench at home...

…at Cheydinhal, which was set up to accommodate the 'average' individual.

My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly a few times, and swallowed hard. "I'm all right," I lied, my voice gravelly with the effort.

I didn't hear Lucien come up behind me – but I _felt _his presence move. It's something you just…learn…in this business. Knowing when someone's standing close behind you.

"Sarielle."

"_No_," I said firmly. It was hard enough being _awake_, when I could control my thoughts…sleep seemed like the enemy just now.

"All right," Lucien said in his almost-usual 'if that's how you want to play' tone. I felt his hands close on my shoulders – for a moment reassuring and even friendly…

A moment later the world seemed to pitch as the spell – a powerful one – leeched into me through the touch.

"Lucien don't…" I managed, but my vision as already fuzzing over and darkness set in, compounding the exhaustion I already felt, after my bath...

But just as my mind disengaged I heard his last comment, "I'm sorry, I didn't get all that…ah, you can tell me in the morning."

--S--

I woke on the padded bench I'd noticed earlier, with Evander standing nearby, skeletal hand on his sword hilt, his whole posture radiating 'yon lady's bodyguard'. I sat up slowly, the blanket that had been draped across me at one point sliding off to land crumpled on the floor, my head pounding like I'd been hit over it…what happ…oh yeah...that _fetcher_.

I felt a _lot_ closer to normal as anger and resentment bubbled in my belly…Drain fatigue on _me_ will he? And…oh _hell_…he…he spiked my bath! The gall…Speaker or not, bad day or not, I'm going to kick his ass…just as soon as I find him…_dammit_!

Drain fatigue on _me, _will he?!

"_Resst._" I stopped moving and looked around. The voice was startlingly similar to the voice that the door into the Sanctuary usually used. I looked around – the only other creature was the dark guardian, still standing like a statue. I swung my legs over so I was sitting up properly, and the guardian turned his head. "_Resst._"

"I'm sorry?" I said this out loud in my puzzlement. Tag, Shuffles and Smethwick have always been totally silent – nonverbal, I mean. And so have all the guardians at Deepscorn.

"_Masster ssayss…you resst_," the sibilant voice issued from the guardian's unmoving mouth, and blue fires sprang to life in the eye sockets.

Uber-guardians, what the hell?

"Lucien said that did he? Anything else he wants me to do?" I asked bitterly, shaking a little from stress and anger. Anger seemed to be running away the grief, and for that, I was grateful. Anger I can handle. Drowning in pain and misery…it's not something I've ever done before.

"_Don't fuss_."

That's it. I'm killing him. I am going to take him out the first chance I get…

"You're awake," he sounded surprised.

I turned – intending to snap and snarl, eyes flashing - to see Lucien heading out of the bathroom, pulling a shirt on as he came out of the corridor. Yeah –that went a bit of a way towards diffusing my temper, because that traitorous little part of my brain was admiring the view, and the dialog went something like this 'damn he's got nice abs. I knew it.'

I am utterly pathetic. I have reached an all-time low…the family lies dead and I'm still thinking about a guy with great abs…

I stood up, rather aggressively. The guardian clattered…Evander…I think.

"It's all right, Evander," Lucien confirmed my suspicion, his head popping free of his shirt, which he tugged into place rather unconcernedly - which nettled me even more. "Did you sleep well…ah…no need to answer…" he held up a forestalling hand, smirking slightly at me.

My expression clearly read 'I hate you'. I resent the usurpation of my own free will.

Wow…it's almost like a normal day.

Lucien walked up to me. "You can hate me all you like, so long as you tell the truth: you feel better, don't you?" he asked quietly. His face twitched as he caught he waft of my perfume, and it struck me here, that he might just appreciate the scent.

I still want to hit him –though I know, in the back of my mind, I know, that it wouldn't do any good, I'd only regret it later. I shook my head slowly, in distaste. "Don't you _ever_ pull that bullshit again," my voice was steady as a rock, even if I didn't feel steady. I still feel shaky, and caught in a swing between opposing extreme emotions.

I half-expected him to ask 'or what?', but he didn't.

"Well, it's good to see your sense of humor remains," Lucien said mildly. He seemed to be holding up better than I was. "Do you think you can hold down some breakfast?"

I scowled at him – what game is he running?

The mistrust hurt him, I saw it for a second or two, just before he pulled his mask on.

"Don't…" I reached up absently and touched his face. His eyes flickered towards my hand, or in that general direction – it was apparent that he hadn't expected me to touch him at all, and he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. "That was…cruel. I'm," he raised a hand and touched my lips. My turn to flinch and rest the urge to step backwards.

"Don't. We'll be cruel together," I didn't see his commentary – or even draining fatigue on me – as particularly cruel, but I didn't argue the point. "Breakfast?" he asked quietly, and took his fingers away from my lips so I could answer.

"I'll try…" I couldn't promise.

"Thank you."

"Don't."

Lucien reached up and put his hand delicately between my shoulder blades and we started towards the kitchen.

I get the feeling we're on the same page. We're neither of us happy, we're neither of us as strong as we want to be...need to be. We suffer...except Lucien still has to fill the leader-boots, and that means taking care of his subordinates…making sure they don't do anything stupid.

I reached up and wrapped an arm around him, and closed my eyes. It's not much comfort, but it's what I can offer: if we can be cruel together, we can hurt together. Perhaps there really _is_ some small comfort in that.

--Author's notes appended --

Evander can talk!


	54. Chapter 54

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Hey! It's here! Everyone give props to L'Ankou, who reminded me I hadn't posed this. ;

Here ya go!

--

Chapter Fifty-Three: The Gift

--

Despite that we had 'breakfast' neither of us really ate. I didn't have the stomach for it. I felt a little stronger than the day before, but not strong enough to do much, other than make a nasty smudge on my next target's floor.

"Now, about the Sanctuary," Lucien began, looking up from his own picked-at breakfast to regard me closely.

"I'm not going back Lucien," I said quietly, but with a sense of certainly. I met his gaze easily, with no shiver of distaste – he is as he has always been. And perhaps more, now that he's the last of the Family I have. I won't argue that I needed the nap – dreamless as it was - I simply argue with his methods. Even though I also know I'm stubborn as a mule, and probably deserved what I got.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked in a tone that radiated politeness, but in reality held a gentle warning. He's got a silence-spell most people would kill for…and I'm ready to believe he'll use it, from here on out.

"I am not going back to Cheydinhal Sanctuary," I said quite clearly, calmly. It was defiance, yes, but it wouldn't be counted that way. I think I simply caught him flat-footed by anticipating his argument. I looked down at the napkin I was shredding with my hands.

"You'll do," he said firmly but gently, "as you're told." He's said it before, in recent days. I wonder if he's tired of it yet. Yes, I think so.

"I remember the Tenant in question, and I'm not so overwrought at this juncture," I said calmly and looked up, and met his eyes with a sort of benign weariness. I was not surprised to see a similar expression on his face, and I decided that what I needed was to pull myself together as quickly as possible and find out what the plan from here on in is. We'll both feel better when we're doing something – because we're creatures of action, for all we like to play with words. "But you won't tell me to. You won't even ask me to. So why are we having this talk?" It's true. I'm the only one left. The only one capable of doing anything more than sitting around in shock, that a Sanctuary in the Family has been Purified.

Lucien pursed his lips, and then sighed and looked away.

He wasn't planning on going back either, I'd venture to say. Too many memories. Too much pain. And you can't do your job properly, if you've got a knife in your guts. Or your back. Or your heart. "We'll find the bastard," I said calmly. Or rather, Lucien will. For I had watched the burning look kindle in his eyes, and he was now giving my tea a rather homicidal look that was never intended for me. Of that I'm quite certain.

"Yes," he said a little stiffly. "And then he'll be very, _very_ sorry. If he can still scream," Lucien said matter-of-factly and I smiled coldly. It was a smile cold as a Skyrim winter. I've heard the stories about Lucien, about the kind of killer he is, and part of me for a long time had not believed.

I really _believe _them now – I've _seen_. And I felt – even now – a strong stab of pity for whoever wound up taking the brunt of that homicidal look.

I smiled benignly and reached across the table to touch his wrist. "I want to help."

Lucien patted my hand, then turned my arm over, looking at my sleeve. "How're your wrists?" I thought he'd forgotten the ugly marks on them, up until now. But looking at his face now, I knew he hadn't.

"Look," it was not an order, it was permission.

He shifted my sleeve back to mid forearm –as far as it would go, without being unbuttoned. The wounds looked better than they had during my bath – week-old and scabbed over. No sign of infection. "Good," Lucien nodded and tugged my sleeve back into place. He let me have my arm back, and continued, "Do you have all your things, then?"

"I do," I nodded. Everything except the armor and weapon from Deepscorn. But he doesn't need to know that. Come to think of it, I don't believe I've told him about Deepscorn.

"Good, you'll need them," Lucien nodded.

"Good, I need to be busy," I agreed, and glanced up to find him looking closely at me, as if trying to decide whether I was serious, or whether I had broken further. "I'm very serious…I don't like twiddling my thumbs."

Lucien nodded. "But for now, take a few days, rebuild your composure. Then we'll let you get started with your new duties."

"Thank you," I couldn't even force a smile for him. I tried.

--S--

I was at Farragut for five days – mostly by myself. It was on the evening of the fourth day that I came to the conclusion that if I was to heal…I couldn't do it here. The dark guardians were only so much company, and I took to roaming the surrounding lands simply to be outside – though admittedly, it was not exactly a pleasant experience. I could still see Cheydinhal on my longer excursions, and it was like having a dagger driven into my chest.

The fifth morning, Lucien came back, looking tired.

I was sitting in one of the chairs, looking at the game of chess I was sharing with Evander. It was obvious that while the rest of the guardians were hired help, Evander was meant to be more like 'company'. At any rate, he understood chess, which was why we were playing.

"I see you're feeling better," Lucien announced as Evander got up to carry out his duties.

I shifted in my chair. "A little. When you have a moment," I looked back to the game.

Lucien nodded and disappeared towards the bath. He was limping a little, as though his ankle was bothering him, and I wondered why that would be. Then I noticed my answer: he's breaking in new boots.

I winced – he should go with a lighter model, like mine. No blisters, no problems.

--S--

Lucien flopped into Evander's abandoned chair some half-hour later, and looked at the reset board, and made an opening move.

I countered.

"Enjoying your time off?" he has a contract for me.

I looked up, feeling, for what felt like the first time in forever, a sparkle of humor. "I need more to do than teach Evander how to beat you," I answered with a tentative attempt at my usual humor, and what wound up being a shy smile. Lucien's hand stopped halfway to his knight, and I looked up from the gesture to find him examining my face closely. "What?" I asked, blinking owlishly.

"I see your sense of humor's coming back. That's good," and there was something like…relief…in his eyes.

I nodded. "Slowly. I…" I stopped, took a slow, deep breath and continued. "I don't know…the longer I'm away from Cheydinhal…the more the pain dims. And…I suspect I'll heal faster if I'm doing _something_. I've been pathetic long enough," I said this without self-deprecation. It was only two or three days ago that I managed to go a whole day without my composure slipping.

I was having nightmares, though. Ugly ones. Lucien's spell had put me in dreamless sleep for one night, but each subsequent night was…torturous.

And I don't want Lucien to hear me shouting in my sleep.

Evander's taken to waking me before I scream myself hoarse, trying to ward off my own implacable demons. I suspect Evander will tell Lucien that I'm having nightmares…but I also doubt that Lucien will interfere, unless he witnesses it firsthand. There's not much he can do…not much I can do, except cast a silence spell on myself before I go to sleep. And that's something I don't like doing.

"Well, I do have a job for you, when you're ready," Lucien said. "And then we need to talk about future arrangements."

"Yes," I agreed placidly. I looked up at Lucien, he was sitting hunched forward, a thoughtful look across his features, fingers laced, the gears in his head turning.

I castled, nonchalantly. He'll never see the trap coming.

He swung a knight forward.

And my second bishop ended the game.

Lucien flicked his eyes up at me and I smiled. "Been practicing all week for this," I smiled. The gesture was still shy…but it was a testimony to some inner strength I didn't know I had that I _could_ smile at all, without bursting into tears.

Lucien beamed at me. "Then practice a little harder," he made one more move.

Dammit – I forgot I hadn't caught that other knight. "Oh damn," I sighed, slumping in the chair and giving the board a baleful look.

"Yes, it does look like you're ready to foray off into the real world," he said, frowning at the board. "You are getting better."

"I've been practicing with Evander," I continued scowling at the board. And here I thought I'd won…

Lucien nodded.

"Tell me about this contract," I settled back in my chair. Chess always puts us both in a thoughtful-sort mood, good for ruminating and puzzling over the problems of the Empire, or mankind in general.

Lucien moved to get up.

"Oh, don't," I said and got up myself. "Just tell me where it is - rest your foot." I walked over to his bag.

"Outer pocket."

His bag seems like nothing _but_ pockets, but I found the envelope, and the sheaf of contracts. The latter I set on his desk and weighted it absently with an inkwell, then returned to my chair. I examined the contents of the contract. "I hate undead…well, except for…" I stopped and closed my eyes.

"Yes – the obvious exceptions," Lucien said, but I knew that we both heard Vicente's name in the offing.

I set my jaw and continued to read, twiddling the end of my braid as I did so. "I can take care of this - no problem," I said a little more hoarsely than I meant.

"Good."

I got to my feet.

"Now?" Lucien arched his eyebrows.

I looked over at him and shrugged. "Might as well."

Lucien settled back in his chair and I could feel a sort of...contained disappointment. As if I was taking off far earlier than he'd expected. I suppose I understand – it must be nice coming 'home' to a place that feels like home, that has human presence in it…instead of coming back to a cold, dusty, musty fort. It was always disappointing when the guardians were the only ones home…

I stopped the thought before it became painful. It's true, though.

I walked forward, feeling a smile grace my features: it's nice to be missed, though. I leaned over his shoulder and gripped the other. "You're the last of the Sanctuary – all I have. Do you want me to wait a day or two before I go off to do this?" I asked. I could smell his soap.

Lucien reach up, took the wrist of the hand on his shoulder and pulled my arm forward. I realized why when he pressed his thumb against the scar, hidden beneath my sleeve, the mark that had been a failed attempt to kill me. "He's nearly killed you once, Sarielle. Be very, _very_ careful."

I smiled and wrapped my arm around his collar bones and pressed my cheek against his neck. I heard him take a soft, deep breath, my perfume wreathing us both. "Don't worry – you've got enough on your plate already. I'll be _very_ _careful_," I repeated with the same intensity.

"You do that."

"You too." I let him go and walked towards the ladder. "Take care of yourself, huh?" I offered as a goodbye.

"Sarielle, wait," Lucien got to his feet, as though coming to a sudden conclusion. "I…have a gift for you," Lucien said softly.

I blinked, and gave him a bit of a suspicious look. "Oh…"

Lucien motioned me to follow him up the ladder.

I followed and climbed out of the hollow tree.

Lucien was already walking down the sloping hill upon which Farragut was built, whistling – a chilling sound, in and of itself. A moment later Shadowmere melted out of the landscape.

I followed, slowing as Shadowmere pranced up to Lucien. "You already know Shadowmere," Lucien said and reached up to run a hand along the horse's jaw.

Shadowmere whickered and butted her head against Lucien's chest. He reached up and began to scratch behind her ears, smiling fondly at her. I wandered down and felt something very cold settling into my stomach. It had nothing to do with seeing the unmistakable bond of trust and friendship between man and mare…I'm not sure I can even explain my concern.

Only that…he wouldn't…he _can't_…

"She's the fastest creature under the night sky, loyal and strong. She'll suit you well, I should think," Lucien said, glancing over at me, before he leaned over to whisper to Shadowmere, stroking her ears as he did so.

As if she had expected as much she sighed and gave me a baleful look that declared plainly this was only a favor to her human. Lucien smiled, though and rubbed Shadowmere's nose, and she promptly ignored me again, in favor of the attention.

She reminds me of someone…but I can't quite place my finger on it.

"I can't…" I looked. The horse's red eyes were looking at me, sort of the exact polar opposite to a unicorn. I walked over to join them, and reached up hesitantly and at Lucien's nod and Shadowmere's growing very still, touched the velvety nose. Shadowmere lashed her tail and Lucien reached up and rubbed her neck, and she quieted a little.

"Oh yes you can," Lucien smirked. "Consider her a token of my trust…"

There was something he wasn't saying, but I didn't press him for it. There's a lot we're both not saying these days – because there's no point. "Well…since you insist…thank you."

"I do," Lucien said. "Your travel will require her strength and speed."

"That and you think I'll look good on her: a dark rider on a dark horse…your former post, I believe," I elbowed him gently and Shadowmere snorted warningly.

Oh…knock it off. It's okay.

"Now, what is the point of being an assassin if you don't take some creative license?"Lucien elbowed me back and Shadowmere ignored it. Lucien smiled, then addressed Shadowmere, softly, so I couldn't hear what he was saying –but I think I knew: it was along the lines of 'don't let this one get herself killed', or something like that – and it was meant as a continuation of our game.

Shadowmere shook her head and snorted, and pawed the ground. "You will no longer receive instructions directly from me – I've deemed it more prudent to limit contact," Lucien began, all business. "You will, instead, be referred to dead-drops, scattered across Cyrodiil," he added thoughtfully.

I frowned: that leaves a lot open to chance…and trouble…

Lucien saw the dislike of the so-called plan on my face. "Not the ideal method, I know," Lucien agreed dryly, "but for the moment, it is for the best. Once you complete a contract, wait two days, and then proceed to the next drop – that way I'll be able to keep ahead of you…efficient as you are," I didn't smile – he wasn't joking, and he wasn't telling me something. "Perhaps, once things have settled here…" he continued, seeing that I was all business, as well, and therefore wasn't buying, or pretending to buy his half-truth.

"He's killed someone else, hasn't he?" I asked, feeling cold. My arm ached in memory of pain and poison.

Lucien nodded. "But it is a clever murder…and I do not think that anyone else sees it for what it is. But for you and I…it exonerates our Family…or it will. Soon," this last was for my benefit. I reached forward and griped his arm above the elbow, as best I could. My hand's too small to wrap all the way round.

"How many more is this fetcher going to be allowed to kill, Lucien?" I asked. "Before the Black Hand gets their heads back on their shoulders…present company excused, of course."

"Your confidence is inspiring, Sarielle," but his tone indicated that he was of about the same opinion as I was. We're stuck. And neither of us likes it.

I smiled grimly. "Don't let the Hand work you to death."

"It's not the Hand I'm worried about…not yet, anyway," Lucien shook his head. "I would tell you to be careful…but if you don't know to do so already, you are in the wrong business," And I've already promised. He smiled slightly.

I smiled as best I could, but it was an empty, hollow thing, that almost hurt. "And business is good," I answered back. It will be, once I'm back in it, I'm sure.

"Indeed," he patted Shadowmere's shoulder, "Go quickly, and ride in the shadow of Sithis."

"Walk in the shadow of Sithis…" I inclined my head and looked at Shadowmere for a moment, and she looked balefully back at me.

If she throws me…

I boldly swung up onto her bare back, a little clumsily, but I didn't need a leg up, or any sort of assistance.

"Very good, you've been paying attention," Lucien teased gently.

I smiled, a little more naturally. Yes, but not to what he thinks I've been watching. Shrouded armor makes everyone look good – especially people who look good in the first place, and Lucien wears his well.

Shadowmere pranced slightly under my weight and, I realized, was subtly shrugging me forward. I shifted and she quieted, whickering softly and turning when I tugged the reins. She _knows_ I'm not confident without the saddle…and it occurred to me as we trotted off, I'm not entirely sure how to arrange what tack she _does_ have…it _looks_ simple enough…

Well, we're a good team, I suppose, this mare and I: headstrong, and very set in what we perceive as 'our job'.

I felt an unexpected tingle of anticipation, as I returned to the place I truly belong: in the field. Enacting contracts.

I knew Shadowmere reminded me of someone.


	55. Chapter 55

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. I want to cover myself: the comment about the squirrel is a commonly held supposition about Shadowmere, and not intended to infringe on anyone's intellectual property. I always figured she was to weird/evil to adhere to a herbivorous diet.

--

Chapter Fifty-Four: Affairs of a Wizard

--

I knew it was going to be a bad day when I woke up, halfway to Leafrot Cave – where my next target was laying low. To be truthful, this was a good contract for me to start out on – the mark is a wizard, and he's trying to become a lich. And with the obvious exceptions of…of the dark guardians and…

Well, we all know how I feel about the undead, by and large. And liches are always trouble – sooner or later. So it's best to nip this in the bud _before_ he gets to the point where he can slam me around like a ragdoll and laugh about it.

Anyway – bad morning.

I woke up stiff and sore from being all yesterday in the saddle – ah, metaphorically, of course – and quite unused to it.

Shadowmere was up already, grazing…no, no, I do believe that's a _squirrel_ she just wolfed down. Lucien! Your horse is crazy! She might have behaved yesterday, but I get the very nasty feeling that she's not going to be half so accommodating _today_, out from under _your _watchful eyes…

I got up and Shadowmere whickered and shook her head. I yawned and found her bridle. It's not spelled, in fact, I'm a little surprised: it's just mundane leather, with silver rings and fittings – all matte finished so as not to reflect light.

Bridle dangling from my hand I started towards Shadowmere who immediately half-reared and whinnied at me. I stopped, and she returned to all fours, giving me the most baleful look I've ever seen on a horse. We played this game for an hour and a half – and during that time I only managed to get the bridle on over her nose before she bolted – but not out of sight, just out of reach and stayed that way.

I swore loudly and turned my back on her, trying to pull myself together. My composure was slipping.

"I'm obviously doing this wrong!" I said, almost shouting in frustration at the horse.

Shadowmere stomped the ground and tossed her mane.

"I know I'm not Lucien, okay! I just _don't know_!" I sat down hard and drew up my knees, fighting the insane urge to cry. It's unlike me to cry out of frustration or temper, but it was all I felt like doing now.

I looked up at the horse, the bridle hanging from her nose, and she kept twitching her head as if trying to shake it off. I sighed and got up. "If I take that off…can we start over?" I asked and held my hands up so she could see they were empty. Thinking back, Lucien's always very careful when he walks up to her…

Following his example, I took a few slow steps forward, and changed my tone. "Hey…let me take that bridle off…I've obviously got it on your wrong…and that's got to be uncomfortable, right?" I swallowed as Shadowmere stomped about, but didn't try to bolt.

She let me undo the bridle, and didn't try to push away – as she'd done previously – or kick me –which she hasn't tried at all. I looked at the bridle. "Look…I'm not fond of this arrangement either…" Shadowmere turned to look past her shoulder at me. "...I'd rather he'd kept you too…but what was I supposed to do?"

Shadowmere whickered sharply.

I didn't flinch or step back. "That would have been _petty_," I answered. "You're not the only one who cares about him," Shadowmere did _not_ like this, but I stepped forward, reached up and gripped a handful of her mane to keep her from stomping off. "But it's not like I'm any competition either," I added forcefully, and the horse stopped trying to show her attitude.

Shadowmere tried to circle, so we were facing each other and I let her mane go. She whickered at me.

I swallowed and shook my head. "Look, I'm not much of a horsewoman. I'm not –so if you want it done right, you're going to have to teach me, or you can go home, it's that way but I think you already know," I pointed back towards Cheydinhal.

Shadowmere shook her head and pranced slightly. It was obvious she was saying she _couldn't _just 'go back'.

"I know, he's like that," I said dryly. "It's just not worth the crap you'd get…is it?"

Shadowmere whickered and curled her lips.

"Yeah – I know what that's like too." I can't believe I'm having this talk with a horse. I reached up hesitantly and stopped halfway to Shadowmere's jaw. "Can I…" I stopped. It doesn't seem wise to ask 'can I pet you?'. She's not a dog.

Shadowmere lowered her head cautiously and I reached up and scratched behind her ear, as I'd seen Lucien do. Shadowmere whinnied softly.

"You're a beautiful creature," I said quietly and Shadowmere nodded in agreement. "I…" I stopped. Shadowmere was smiling horse-fashion and making a show of teeth. Slightly fanged teeth, but still good for eating plants.

Or fuzzy little woodland critters, as I've already seen.

I smiled and hesitantly reached up and ran a hand through the silky mane. "You're beautiful," I repeated. It's true: Shadowmere may be a demon-horse or something similar, but you have to admire the silky coat, and the feathers on hocks and knees. An emperor could ride Shadowmere, and she'd still make him look like a peasant – so you can imagine how I feel by comparison. I think the only one who really looks good on Shadowmere is Lucien, but that's just me.

Shadowmere turned and cast a red eye at me, gleaming from the sea of her dark face. She gave a sort of whiffling noise and lowered her head slightly, which shifted my hand up to her ear, which twitched as I gently scratched behind it. She tossed her head _exactly_ like a vain woman who's been complimented. "You worry about him, don't you?" I asked. "Now that you're not there to keep an eye on him – watch his back."

The horse gave a funny jerk of the head –which looked like a nod and makes me think that she understands more of the human language than a normal horse _should_.

"So do I," I sighed. "But, he's a big boy, right? He can take care of himself…when it comes to life and death situations, I mean," I said with a chuckle.

Shadowmere whickered – or rather 'snickered' – and began to graze placidly. I moved my hand to rub her shoulder, feeling her coat slide under my hand. Beautiful horse.

"So – does this mean you'll tolerate me?" I asked quietly.

Shadowmere whickered and gave me a baleful look, which spoke plainly that she had _been_ tolerating me. _I_ simply hadn't been paying attention.

"Right…I'll keep that in mind," is it so odd to talk to your horse? Particularly when you come to suspect that she understands every word you say. I sat down. "We're hunting a lich – you know anything about them?"

Shadowmere looked up, sneezed, and went back to grazing.

"Me too – nasty things. Hey…do you want some of this?" I had produced an apple and sliced it up, and now held two slices towards Shadowmere, wedged between my fingers. She strolled over and gobbled them delicately – avoiding my fingers and then knelt behind me.

I cautiously settled back against her silky flank and we shared the apple. "So, let's see about this hunk of junk – I need it, even if you don't…" I managed to get the bridle all the way on, without starting another ruckus. "It's not uncomfortable, is it?"

Shadowmere chomped at the bit as if to say that it _was_, but she was used to it.

"Okay," I swung up onto her back and gave her a gentle kick. She took off at a prance, and I sighed and began to hum, but without too much enthusiasm. I was amazed I could make musical sound at all, the way this last week has been.

--S--

I wish, now, that Archmage Traven was a little more reasonable in his stance on Necromancy – how the hell do you fight what you don't understand? I'm not saying that the temptation for power could be resisted by all (it's not a problem for me, I _like _having a pulse) I'm simply saying that it's bad policy to jump into something you don't understand.

That used to get me into a lot of trouble with the guild:

_Necromancy is evil – a perversion of the order of the world! It should not be taught in any form – I agree with Archmage Traven._

_So what happens when you've got to fight a lich, or something _really _gross…or worse! Something _new – _something, you don't know what it is, or how it even exists?_

_You hit hard, strike first, obviously._

_Yeah, well, how do you know you're not gonna make it stronger...in your _admirable _haste and..._

_Dagmar! Resume your seat!_

And the conversation was over. Yeah –they're pretty pinheaded over there.

Fortunately for me – as Lucien points– mages like to keep notes. I consider myself more of an alchemist than a mage and only keep notes when I'm working on a new project. We may not write down everything…but we write down a good bit – so we can go back to where the project fizzled without having to start from scratch.

I slipped off Shadowmere's back and she whickered uneasily, snorting and blowing her lips as if she smelled something unpleasant on the air. She probably did.

"Don't worry," I patted her cheek, which she lets me do, even less than a day after our little heart-to-heart. "I'll be careful…we wouldn't want to disappoint the boss-man, now would we?" Shadowmere snickered at me and I grinned. "Yeah, well, what can you do?" I chuckled. "I don't know how long I'll be…I'll come find you when I'm through, okay?"

Shadowmere gave me a nudge with her nose, as if to say 'get on with you', and I rubbed her ears before slipping up to the mouth of the cave, and vanishing beneath a chameleon spell.

I slithered into Leafrot cave to find what looked like a cross between a hedge-wizard's lair, a rough, crudely formed tomb, and a laboratory. Lucien was right: prolific – Celedaen, the necromancer, had projects all over the place. The man – or 'mer, as the case may be - has no sense of methodology.

That means sloppy magic.

I've noticed that about necromancers: they are _sloppy_. They strong-arm things, and just generally have no appreciation for finesse.

I slipped forward, hand straying to Sufferthorn every so often…

_How did…I didn't leave Sufferthorn here, did I?_

_You were very upset, it's understandable. _

_Yeah…but that's not like me…usually I…never mind…_

No, it's _not_ like me – and since leaving Sufferthorn out in the open, I obsessively check to make sure it's in its sheath. Like checking to make sure my boots are laced…only not.

Focus.

I cast detect life – Celedaen will still show up…ahhh, there he is. I see you…

Regardless, I don't like the idea of trying to kill a lich by myself. I'm an _assassin_, I'd prefer a less Fighters' Guild method, if you know what I mean. And that, unfortunately, means poking about for answers, with a half-dead - let's say – necromancer shuffling around. Right under his nose…

Oh well – unless _he's_ using detect life, then it doesn't really matter, I've already been spotted. And although I don't want to pin too much hope on it, I'm pretty sure he's not expecting guests…

Which makes me wonder: you don't think the _mage's guild_ would contact the Dark Brotherhood to remove a pest…do you? Ooh, think of the _blackmail_! Unless they owe us a favor – and everyone knows that favors are almost as useful as gold.

I looked around again – Celedaen is still poking about…blissfully ignorant…

Project after project littered workbench after workbench. Finally, though, on a cleared space on a workbench that looked like it hadn't been touched for a week, I found one of Celedaen's books of notes, and opened it, flipping through.

Better than a book of notes…a journal…a journal cataloguing his failures –continual and very frustrating – and how he…how he found out how to make the shift…daedra shit on rye…he's not just becoming a true lich, he's becoming a Worm Eremite...and for those who don't know…that's _bad_.

There are whispers, have always been whispers in the guild of these…undead horrors. More than liches, they're almost like…undead priests of Mannimarco – the King of Worms…his favored acolytes.

I felt my blood chill, and looked at the shining life force that was Celedaen.

He's working for Mannimarco…but that's not possible, Mannimarco is supposed to be dead…you know, properly...

Now. I may have bones and a beef with the Guild…but I'm not so far down that path that I'm going to let this go unnoticed. It could be nothing…it could be something, and with the Oblivion Crisis in full swing, Traitors in the Family, and who know what the hell else…I'm not going to let anything else just sneak up on us, if you know what I mean.

I clutched the journal to my chest for a moment. I'll send it to the University – they can't help but open up any book that comes under their collective noses. They won't even care who it's from. And I'll send them a finger or something of Celedaen's as proof of the reality of the situation…

Or maybe I'll send something less obvious…I looked back to the journal, and flipped to the end, hoping that this, at least, would give me an idea about how to stop Celedaen.

--S--

_Through the sacrifice of many innocents, the resurrection of many servants to aid me in my tasks, and the tireless performance of a nearly week-long ritual, I have completed construction of the Sands of Resolve. The transcendence to full lichdom will not be immediate, however. The vessel has been crafted, but my energy force, my soul, must be fully transferred into it. Not even our Sovereign was quite certain how long this process would take, at it varies from one Necromancer to the next, based on many factors both physical and spiritual. One thing, however, is certain. This hourglass must never leave my possession until the transference is complete! I grow more powerful every day, but in truth am more vulnerable than I've ever been. If something were to happen to the Sands of Resolve, if the hourglass should somehow leave my person, the connection between soul and vessel would be severed. To think that my work, my life, could be eradicated so easily after I've come so close to success is almost more than I can bear._

--S--

I shut the book and set it back on the table. I'll come back for it.

I turned.

"Well, hello. Enjoying ourselves?"

I jumped to the left, rolling and narrowly avoided the spell that would have snuffed my life out. I blocked the next spell with a hasty shield and felt my palms grow hot with magicka-on-magicka. Celedaen is _way_ more powerful than I am…

"So, the mage's guild got wind of me, eh? Sent you, did they?" the Altmer creaked slightly as he moved. Celedaen might have been very handsome once, but he wasn't now – his face was rotting off, and he had already lost one eye to it. An eye now replaced by a glowing light in a corroded socket. And he smells bad – not like rotten meat, but…like swamp gas and blood, and filth…yes, generally like every filthy thing you can imagine, all rolled into a seaweed handbag. "They really shouldn't send children."

"That's what I'm told," I answered back, my eyes raking his robes for a sign of the Sands of Resolve. All I have to do is separate them from him – that's it.

Celedaen launched another spell at me and I ducked – I don't even recognize some of this stuff he's throwing…and you never block what you don't think you recognize. That's a good way to get your face melted off.

I jumped over one table and darted behind a rocky stalagmite – or stalactite - it went goes clear from floor to ceiling, I can't tell the difference! "That's not going to save you! If you give up now, it might be better for you. I can always use a little help around the house…" he cackled.

"Sorry shuffles, I'm taken," I answered back sassily. Mindless servitude was what he had kin mind, I'm sure, and that doesn't appeal to me. I like having mental capability and free will.

Celedaen was silent and I threw myself forward just as his next spell hit the rocky pillar. "You can't hide! I can see your _life_!"

"Then see this!" I returned and as I launched the volley of icicles. In the moment during which he waved the attack aside as if it was a hail of marshmallows, I saw it.

"Child's play!"

Glittering at his belt, full of light and sand…

I was a moment too slow to dodge, but not to block the spell that would have bound me to my shadow, locked me in place as surely as I had missed Midyear. I screamed at the magical backlash ripping through me, as my magical shield shattered. Breathing hard from trying to negate the backlash – which is almost as dangerous as the spell blocked, I went sprawling back, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud that rattled my back teeth. I rolled onto my side and force myself to my feet. I wasn't hurt, past the shock of having my shield _shattered_, but I also knew I'd not be able to block another spell.

Celedaen advanced.

I shouted the sign for a fireball and Celedaen lazily moved to block it…

And didn't realize I _meant_ him to. With my off hand I pointed towards the Sands in their glass, and called them. The artifact – being powerfully magical – was hard to 'hold'. But it was also very small, and very light in weight, so the telekinesis spell I bought of M'raaj not so long ago worked. I had the force of will and enough magicka to _wrest _the Sands of Resolve free of their golden chain.

The golden chain on the hourglass snapped, sending golden links underfoot. The shimmering article flew through the air in a graceful arc and towards my outstretched hands. It was warm and buzzed faintly, shining and glowing…But only for a second. I looked up just as the glass reached my hands.

Celedaen's half-corroded face was a mask of utter shock, and horror at the realization of what I'd done. "Assassin," I said just as the glass touched my hands.

It went black and the sands turned deep red.

"Oh shit!" I threw it as hard as I could to the left and flung myself right, hands over my head.

Celedaen shrieked and the Sands of Resolve exploded, sending glass and sand and fragments of the housing everywhere. Glancing up I saw a piece of glass, no larger than the top of my forefinger slice into Celedaen and shoot though him. The effect was like having a broadsword punched through him. I winced as hot glass and hot metal rained down on me.

Celedaen thrashed and spun, his robes flaring out about him.

Then he crashed to the ground.

I got up slowly, and was knocked back as a latent burst of power, like a wave, slammed into me full force, sending me reeling back, landing hard and flat against the ground.


	56. Chapter 56

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Yea! Now with 100 more horse-attitude!

--

Chapter Fifty-Five: Horse Sense

--

I pushed myself to sitting and looked around – tables overturned, projects scattered everywhere –several were smoking nastily, and many look like they shouldn't have been mixed in the first place. I got to my feet, rubbing my poor bruising tailbone and moving cautiously across the room.

Celedaen was nothing more than a heap of robes and ash…and a little bit of what _looked_ like grave mold, but I was not willing to investigate too closely. Whatever it is, it's probably pretty foul, and I don't want touch it.

You _never_ touch stuff like that – you never know what it'll do to your gloves and armor…to say nothing of your skin, once it's got _through _said gloves and armor.

Glass and sand crunched underfoot. It might be surprising, how much of both there was, but to someone who's studied magicka…stuff like glass in a powerful artifact, like the Sands of Resolve…well, it tends to wind up being more than it looks like, if it's destroyed I don't know why, it just is.

When one of my experiments blew up – and I mean _blew up _I was cleaning up glass and the contents of the experiments' casing for hours. I was lucky it wasn't picking the glass out of my _skin_.

I picked up the journal, after fishing about for it and perched on the corner of the upended table.

What is it with me and not using furniture properly?

I'll just drop it off at the University – that's in the Imperial City…and then from there…I fished for my little light-in-a-bottle and gave it a good shake and breathed on the casing. It went luminous immediately, a but red light that didn't hurt my eyes. Most of the magelights had gone out with Celedaen's death – though one or two were flickering feebly.

Shadowmere whickered from the entrance of the cave. "I'm okay! Things just got a little rough!" I hollered. "I'll be right out!"

From the Imperial City I need to head to…the Great Oak, outside Chorrol, for my next set of orders. I got to my feet and headed for the entrance of the cavern, then stopped, and started again. No, if they don't take the warning of the diary seriously, then they'll get just as they deserve.

I stopped short of the entrance – Shadowmere stood grazing at something near the right side.

She was eating deadly nightshade.

"Oh, is _that_ your favorite?" I asked, smiling sardonically. Of _course_ it would be.

Shadowmere looked up and nodded and pulled the more of the plant up and continued chewing on it, the pungent smell of it filling the air. "Why am I not surprised?" I rubbed her neck as she continued to chew. "You up for a trip to the Imperial City?"

She whickered at me, and I reached down and harvested what I could of the ruined plant. "We'll save the rest of this for a snack, hmm?" I asked, putting the flowers and berries into a pouch on my belt.

Apparently pleased with this, Shadowmere nodded and I climbed up onto her back.

--S--

I stabled Shadowmere at the Chestnut Handy Stables.

"That's a fine mare you've got there," the proprietress, an Orismer, said cheerfully.

"She is," I agreed, patting Shadowmere and finger-combing her mane. "A word of warning about this mare," I turned to looked at the Orismer. "Keep the other horses away from her. She'll kill them," Shadowmere nodded at this.

"Heh –that's not a problem. Yours is the only horse here right now."

I looked at the Orismer…hmm. You know, I can read something into that. "Right..." the Orismer went to go fetch feed for Shadowmere. While she was gone, Shadowmere began to try and chew at the pouch on my belt. "Okay, okay," I breathed and fished out the nightshade, feeding several berries to her by hand and dropping the rest into her feed box.

She immediately leaned over to gobble them up and I leaned over to whisper to her, "Don't let them see you eating that stuff – they think you're weird enough as it is…"

Shadowmere turned and gave me a look and blew her lips at me.

I smiled. "I'll see you later," I rubbed her ears and turned to go.

--S--

It was strange being back in the Imperial City. I feel…oddly isolated. Like I'm surrounded by golems or constructs and not living people. The Arcane University is located almost opposite the main gate to the city. It's a very well-kept place, and full of snobby mages and 'scholars'. Not a whole lot of field men here - the field men are, obviously out in the field. _Doing_ things.

Speaking of doing things…

"What do you mean I can't go in?" demanded the petite Breton lady with…yeah, her hair really is blue, cut short and sassy, and decidedly _blue_. "I was told that…"

"I'm sorry, miss, but entrance to the University is dependent on recommendations from the Guildhall heads – I can't let you in," the battlemage was saying. She caught sight of me and then looked back at the irate Breton.

"Don't bother fuming, they're like the foundations of the earth around here," I said idly and walked up to the battlemage. "Please see that this gets to the head librarian, or someone who can do something about it," I handed over Celedaen's journal. "It's a matter of import to the Archmage…though I know that your system won't allow it to go straight to him."

"What is it?" the blue-haired Breton asked.

"It's a book," I answered in true, irritating fashion. I don't care to discuss what it is or how I got it, right here, right now. I looked over –the Breton's hair matched her eyes, an oddly clear shade of sapphire blue.

"Wow, _you're_ a lot of help."

"It's a gift," I said, both to the battlemage – indicating the book- and to the Breton, indicating I didn't much care for her opinion. Being in the city is making me edgy – I'm not going to stay here overnight - I'll find a smaller hamlet, or an inn or something…

The battlemage took the parcel and went back to dealing with the Breton.

Still – the kid has potential – she practically radiates magicka…and that hair…good grief. And that attitude – whoo. No sense of stealth. And I mean 'kid' she can't be more than eighteen or nineteen.

--S--

Shadowmere and I headed for Chorrol in a very slow fashion – I was almost chomping at the bit. It would have be one thing to just go and do this and get it over with – if I didn't have orders to wait, I'd have tarried and wasted time for a couple of days…but give me orders and look what happens. Fortunately, even if Shadowmere is a horse she's an excellent conversational companion…uh, think the dark guardians-type conversation.

Well, all but Evander, obviously, and even then, his vocabulary is pretty limited.

Shadowmere and I have reached something close to mutual respect here, and there have be no stepped-on feet, bitten fingers or sharp kicks to the flanks during transport.

With the dead drop outside the city, I did not need to leave Shadowmere anywhere. The drop was exactly where it should have been – a sack hidden at the feet of the tree. It was spelled to know my touch, and I took it, and walked Shadowmere a good distance away, before stopping to read it. I sat down and she knelt behind me, and I leaned against her silky side. This is how we sit, when we break in travel. Usually I feed her, but as my hands are full…

First came my pay, for the hit on Celedaen. This I set aside – I have gold – up until now I haven't needed to spend it on much – though my expenditures are going to go up, now that I don't live at the Sanctuary. The next was the sealed envelope…but there was something else in the bag- I felt it when I'd fished out the note. I set the bag down and rolled it back. Lying at the bottom was a rose – red, of course…and nightshade, blossoms and berries. I smiled and pulled the flower out. A real flower, a real rose…

"Hey!" I reached up and gave Shadowmere's nose a playful but firm push as she tried to eat the flower. Holding it out of her way, I scooped up the nightshade with my free hand. "_No. This_ is for you, this is _mine_," I tapped the rose in the air, as if addressing a small child.

Shadowmere snickered at me and ate the nightshade happily.

I looked back at the flower, and felt my stomach jostle…not unpleasantly, just…well, a little apprehensively, I guess. I've been given flowers before…but not in a situation like this – usually it's an apology, or a forgotten occasion or…but this time it really does seem like…just because.

I sniffed at the blossom – perfect for a love potion, there's that practical aspect too – it's very sweet, and the color is lovely too…I let it fall slowly with my hands to my lap and bit my lip. For a moment I'd almost felt…happy.

With the others lying dead…I was over here, laughing and joking with the horse…but the pain and self recrimination that came with the thought was less than it was yesterday. I suppose grief is like that – it slips away like sand in an hourglass…until you wonder where it, like time, has gone.

Shadowmere nudge my elbow with her nose, having finished the nightshade. "Well, it's nice of him to send both his girls flowers, isn't it?" I asked quietly and reached over to finger comb her mane. "I didn't have him figured as a flowers kind of guy," I set the rose aside – out of Shadowmere's reach, as she was still eying it greedily – and unfolded the note. Shadowmere stuck her head close to it, and I pushed her back by the nose again – this time she had something waiting for me.

"_Ugh_…" I groaned and wiped her slime on her knee. "That's really gross," I announced and the horse laughed and stuck her nose in my face as if to say 'give us kiss' – like one might say to a pet. "Ugh – no!"I tipped backwards and narrowly avoided my rose and gently used my foot to redirect her snuffling and suddenly full of slimy nose. "If you get boogers on me…"

Lucien –your horse is _crazy_. But I'm glad of her company.

"Hey – I'll read you the note, how's that…hey! _Quit sliming on me_! _Oh_ that's _gross_!" I wiped my foot on the grass and – chuckling to herself, Shadowmere settled down. I sighed in mild irritation and sat back up. "You're a _crazy_ horse."

Shadowmere nodded and I chuckled despite myself. At least we're all on the same page.

"Okay, let's see what he says…don't expect any warm fuzzy greetings or anything…" I warned, and cleared my throat. "_The Necromancer Celedaen is dead, and you are not. That is quite an accomplishment.,"_ I grinned: thanks for the vote of confidence, "_But your work as a Silencer has just begun._ Oh, I'll bet it has," I chuckled and Shadowmere nodded. "_Your next assignment requires you to eliminate not just one target, but five. An entire family, in fact. The matron Perennia Draconis, and the unlucky siblings Matthias Draconis, Andreas Draconis, Sibylla Draconis and Caelia Draconis. The locations of most of the family members are unknown, so you should begin your search with the family matron, who resides at the farm called Applewatch_," I paused here, Applewatch…I love apple blossoms. They're so pretty and sweet…something I'm not so much of.

An old memory shifted in the back of my mind – dark shadows and white blossoms…

"_You must discern the locations of all the Draconis family members and then systematically eliminate them. I suggest you first speak with the mother and find out if she has any valuable information on the whereabouts of her children, before ending her life. When every member of the Draconis family lies dead, journey to the city of Skingrad. In the castle courtyard you will find a well containing your reward for the Draconis contract, as well any further assignment I might have…give my love to Shadowmere – and for Sithis sake, keep your head _down_,_" I laughed aloud at this. Typical Lucien. Keep my head down indeed.

"I think he misses you, Shadow-love," I said absently.

Shadowmere snorted and I looked over at her. "What, do you not want me to call you that?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Ah, it's okay - they used to call me Sari back home…used to call myself that," I reached up and fingered her mane. "You don't _really _mind, do you? You're just giving me crap so I don't start thinking you like me."

Shadowmere gave me a long look and nosed at the paper, almost curiously.

I looked back down at it and felt a sort of nostalgia settle in my stomach. "It's just hard…" I said quietly to the horse, shifting slightly so I was no longer leaning on her, but facing her. "I miss…being part of a family group…I miss the support and the jokes and the weird humor…and now that we're the last, he and I…" I swallowed. I am so glad I'm not the sort of girl to pine in silence…I just don't have time or opportunity to do anything. Not until Bellamont's rotting in his grave. That would be a slight against the dead, or so I feel. But I can day dream…I didn't do as much of that growing up as one might think. "You didn't have siblings…did you?"

Shadowmere shook her head, then laid it on my knees, neither drooling nor…sliming…on me. She flicked her eyes up and I began to comb her mane again, feeling the silky strands run through my fingers. I've never been much of a dog person, but horses are different. "I miss him too…he's probably running himself ragged, without you to remind him that you at least need to take a breather," Or I suspect the case is actually 'want to take a breather'.

Shadowmere nodded and sighed heavily, then she lifted her head and poked me in the shoulder with her nose and gave me a mournful half curious look.

"No, no, no he doesn't listen to me," I chuckled. "I wish he would…but what would I say?" I asked mildly. "Last time _I_ told him not to do something her wound up with half his taste buds burned off," I smiled slightly recalling the image of Lucien trying to tough out something that was never meant to be 'toughed out'. At least, not in that quantity. "Seems to have a problem with authority," I don't have problems with authority.

_I_ have selective hearing.

Shadowmere moved a hoof and nudged my knee with it, as if asking a question. I tapped the paper against my lips a few times, thoughtfully, then looked back at Shadowmere. Her red eyes are so much less malevolent these days, as if she's getting used to me.

I'm already used to her – I enjoy her company.

I rubbed her nose and then reached into my hip bag and fed her a handful of the nightshade that I now keep there. For a usual horse I might have kept sugar lumps, but Shadowmere prefers the nightshade, and that's her prerogative. Flowers, leaves, or berries, she'll take what she can get – and I have a mix of all three. "I…" I shook my head and she nudged my knee with her nose.

I forked over a couple more of the berries, and she snuffled them out of my hand, eating with noisy gusto. The pungent smell of the nightshade touched my senses like a waft of half-remembered cologne. The kind that carries dark secrets that are best left entombed in the heart, and fond memory. I looked down at the rose and picked it up again, fingering the blossom.

Shadowmere put her head back in my lap, and gave the impression of had her fun, and therefore no longer being interested in the flower.

The truth is, I've had a couple of minor affairs – the rich and bored, you know? The lonely. I was always very much in command of those…for lack of a better word, 'relationships'. And I had never found such a magnetic individual as Lucien – and it was asking a lot of strained trust and tattered heart to trust that he wouldn't break said heart.

That's what scares me most, I think.

I can survive a lot – I'm a strong woman. But at the same time, a person can only take so much pain, so much doubt. And it was frightening to me to _want_ so desperately…knowing that there might be nothing the next day.

Just a notch in a bedpost – I don't mean to cast aspersion on Lucien's character, he's always been a gentleman to me. But fear isn't always rational…and he's very good at confusing any issue. It's a lie if I say 'he respects me as an assassin, capable and competent, and that's enough'. It's not. Not really. I sighed. I'm getting depressed. It's time to carry on. "I don't know what to do, Shadow-love," I sighed.

That was one of the reasons I started being a scholar, instead of a social butterfly, those last several years: I knew that there was nothing past whatever we were doing. It was a convenience, or a distraction, but nothing else…and I remember how dirty I used to feel...after everything was said and done, and before the next bout – if there was a next bout…and how annoyed I got with myself for feeling that way.

It took a long time for me to realize that while it might start out as fun…empty relationships weren't doing it for me. I never considered myself a slut – and definitely not on par with Mahina. I've always had standards…and I've settled for less, because my standards were…are so high.

And part of me is afraid that that's what's going to happen here. If this is something that ever comes with in my reach…something that I can have…I want it to be different. Because I at least…actually _feel_ something this time – this is a person I respect, and admire…and like to keep on his toes. In short, not someone who's going to be manipulated, no matter how hard I try. And face it: in this case, why would I want to? If I could, I probably wouldn't be angsting like this.

I've never been in love, and I'm not sure this is it…for the longest time I haven't believed in such a thing. Ask me six months ago, and I'd have said, in bitterness and resentment and perhaps not quite truthfully, that it's an illusion people use to soften the blow of waking up to a spouse every morning…to make lust a little more socially acceptable.

But now I'm not so sure…It just doesn't sound right anymore.

I bent my head – why do I have to make things so complicated…? And how can I justify this sort of mental argument, when the family lies _dead, _there's a _traitor _on the _loose_, and I and the object of my…affection…are working like crazy, more or less, to resolve the issue. And let's not forget world problems as they are… "Oh Shadowlove…I shouldn't think at all!" I groaned, and looked to her for sympathy.

That damn horse.

She planted a very sloppy, nightshade-smelling horse kiss on my face, knocking me over in the process, and then whinnied a laugh. Which broke my funk, my mental sun came back out and I wanted to laugh at how angsty I had gotten in so few minutes. It's really bad – I only used to angst like that on bad days at the Mages' Guild. Just before I blew something up or sabotaged someone in nonlethal ways.

It's pathetic, and not nearly as bad as I made it sound…who cares about stupid little boys some five years past – or more? Who cares? They're not here – and they served their purpose at the time. I've grown up…

"Oh gross...horse-spit..." I winced, trying to wipe the sticky mess off. "First it's slime now it's spit…I dunno which is worse…what's the _matter_ with you?" she tried to slobber _and _slime me and was mostly deflected. "You know…ugh…that's really gross," I chattered. I'll bet she doesn't slime _Lucien_…ugh…this stuff is _sticking_….

Shadowmere nodded cheerfully and whickered.

"What? Are you saying I should take _your _example and just slobber all over his face?" I asked, aggrieved but not _really_ serious…though it could be a good idea. Kind of hard to misconstrue signals _that_ way…I felt my mouth curve into a sardonic smile. Slobber all over his face indeed…little daring…but what's that old adage? Nothing ventured, nothing gained?

Shadowmere, to my surprise, nodded, tossing her head, and stomping a foot to the ground as if applauding that I'd finally cottoned on.

"I'll think about it…hey!" I reached up and put out a hand to stop her from doing it again. "Lucien might not mind horse-kisses, but _I'm_ not used to them!" I stopped my mock-fume and looked at Shadowmere. "Are you actually _encouraging_ me to go slobber all over his face?" I asked, grinning wryly.

Shadowmere rolled her eyes and then gave a shake of the head that said all too clearly, 'if you must'.

"Thanks for permission, Shadow-love," I got to my knees and shuffled forward and cautiously hugged her about the neck. "You're a real piece of work –you know that?"

And the horse _laughed_.


	57. Chapter 57

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who helps clean up my grammar errors and typos.

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Chapter Fifty-Six: Next of Kin

--

Applewatch was well-named. If I thought I'd seen prolific trees outside Skingrad, there was no comparing it with this place. The walk up to the house was like walking through clouds. Granted, the green leaves were really starting to show, but it did not diminish the beautiful blossoms. I reached up and broke off a spray and looked over at Shadowmere, whom I was pretending got lead by the reins.

Shadowmere doesn't need the reins; they're for the benefit of people who think horses are stupid creatures and need to be on a leash. She was walking sedately, by her standards, at my shoulder, much as a friend might. "What do you think – any good?" I asked, holding the flowers over for her.

Shadowmere sniffed at them, and sighed as if she couldn't believe I was offering her these.

"Well, if you don't want them," I made to toss them, but Shadowmere snatched the spray and chomped on them. I smiled and rubbed her nose. "I thought so."

"Excuse me..." I glanced over as the aged woman came hobbling out of the house, looking a little surprised. "Oh my…" She stopped short at the sight of Shadowmere.

"It's quite all right, she doesn't bite," I assured her cheerfully, holding my ground.

Shadowmere snickered at this and hid her face behind my shoulder. I reached up and petted her neck.

"Oh, of course," Perennia Draconis bobbed a bit closer, though her eyes remained fixed on the mare, who was beginning to look at the apple blossoms as though debating whether or not to eat some more. If there's one thing I've leaned, it's that Shadowmere is forever nibbling on things – fortunately, we cover enough ground in a day that it's justifiable. I think she's bored, to be honest. "I'm sorry but…who are you? What do you want?"

She's right—it's a remote out here. No wonder she's wary – wisely so. "I'm looking for Perennia Draconis…" I began.

"That's me…Oh!" To my surprise Perennia clapped her hands, looking pleased. "Excellent, that's very prompt indeed. Do come in," she turned and bustled away.

Shadowmere and I exchanged incredulous-suspicious looks. "Something's fishy…keep your eyes peeled, huh?" I said and let go of the reins.

Shadowmere shook her mane and reached up, grabbing a mouthful of apple blossoms and leaves, munching discontentedly before going back to grass. I suppose she had to try.

I followed Perennia into the house, waiting politely at the doorway. I kept a close eye on her back, and listened to her puttering about, berating herself for getting forgetful in her old age. A moment later she gave an exclamation of joy and shuffled over, bearing a notice.

"You'll be wanting this – wonderful that they dispatched you so quickly! Here you are…oh gracious, but using your gift service was the smartest thing I've ever done. My children are spread across Cyrodiil, and it's so hard to shop for them all!" she laughed pleasantly.

I took the missive and scanned over it. It was indeed a gift list…a gift list that gave the locations of all the member of the family I had been contracted to kill. I looked up to find Perennia in full flow about her children. "This is exactly what I needed, thank you, Ms. Draconis," I smiled.

"Of course…oh and you'll need this," she produced a leather bag and I took it.

It clinked softly – coin. I didn't let my mild look of perplexity show. "Here's the gold I was supposed to give you…now, I daresay you'll want to be on your way…"

I bowed and she turned. My hand went discreetly for Sufferthorn – she didn't see it coming.

However, in my haste to finish her quickly, before she could fight back – for old as she was, she was wiry and I could see her putting up a fight, if her life was at stake – I got thoroughly soaked. Spitting out blood, I let her body drop before wiping my mouth.

_Disgusting_…I wandered into the kitchen, scrubbing my face and spitting until I couldn't taste the blood anymore, and then strode outside, squinting in the sudden brightness. I whistled – the usual way – and Shadowmere came trotting up, chewing on something that looked…bloody.

"You killing off fluffy woodlanders again?" I asked sardonically and Shadowmere chuckled, spraying blood everywhere. I danced back out of spray range and smirked. "That makes two of us…come on – we're going." I climbed up onto her back and we turned. Shadowmere whickered as I regarded the list. "Oh, it's hither thither and yon, this one – makes me glad we don't do time-sensitive contracts…" I groaned.

It's very ironic – I've actually _been_ to the Drunken Dragon Inn before – I'm sure I can find it again. It's not far from Leyawiin…which means I can hit the Captain first, and then take the innkeeper… "We're going south – back to Leyawiin…" I smiled, so ironic, this city-watcher in Leyawiin…I wonder if she was at the scene when Phillida was killed…we'll have to see. "Yes, we're heading to Leyawiin, then up, to the Imperial City…then over towards…" I stopped. Muck Valley Cavern…it's a small cave on the Map in the library. I remember it vaguely… "…north," I ended lamely.

Shadowmere whinnied and turned her head to try and nudge my knee. I patted her shoulder. "I'm okay," I breathed. "It's okay – we'll hit the cavern last…meanwhile…" I went back to reading the note, to find out who my targets were. This is an unusual look into whom I'm killing.

--S--

Caelia Draconis, Leyawiin, City Watch Officer. She is too high up for the barracks, apparently, because she lives at the Three Sisters Inn – interestingly enough, the same inn from which I planned Adamus Phillida's untimely demise. A very tough woman, and Perennia wanted her to be loaded up with 'girly' thinks. Flowers and chocolates and ribbons and pearls…I'll bet what the captain _really_ wants is a nice new crossbow, or ebony armor.

I could have some fun with this. And I could use a little fun.

Caelia came into the room at the end of her shift to find me, just standing up from the chair upon which I'd been sitting. She stopped, closed the door, and looked at me.

I smiled emptily and looked back at her, pulling my hood back to reveal a pale face…and empty eye sockets. The same look I had sported when I'd killed Phillida. It's quite appropriate, for working in Leyawiin, I think.

"You…you're supposed to be dead," Caelia said coldly, not wholly betraying her fear, glancing back towards the door.

"Now, how could anyone kill me? Phillida certainly didn't stop me," I smiled and produced Sufferthorn. "It's your turn, you know."

"Except…I'm not Phillida…" Caelia said coldly and hefted her sword.

"No," I agreed blandly. "You're easy," she moved to block, when it looked like I was going to throw Sufferthorn – which I only palmed – the silence spell shot from my off-hand to hit her, and a moment later she lay on the floor, paralyzed, unable to scream. People will insist on trying to 'throw' a silence spell off, giving the clever assassin time to get in close and paralyze them.

The noise for her fall had alerted the inn's occupants, but Caelia's body was blocking the door, and in all that armor there were few more effective doorstops. I was not concerned – I had expected this would be a noisy fight. I walked over and sealed the door magically, to buy myself a few minutes, and knelt beside Caelia. "Good evening, Captain," I said quietly and within moments she was frozen solid, dead as a doornail – according to detect-life. I love this spell.

I walked across the room and slipped out the window, using the telekinesis spell I'd bought from M'raaj to 'push' against the ground as I dropped, slowing my landing to a gentle bump.

Stupid non-levitation act. That was one reason to _become_ a mage.

By the time I reached the main street, I looked completely normal. No one stopped me, no one questioned me. A clean getaway – not like my last escape from Leyawiin, which was a lot more…dramatic.

That's all right – dramatic too often can get you caught. And the Dark Brotherhood isn't in the habit – so far as I know – of bailing out those who get caught. Bungled missions – sure. But not jailbreaks.

--S--

Andreas Draconis, proprietor of the Drunken Dragon inn, known for his excellent skills in the brewing of ales and general knowledge of all things alcoholic. I've been here before, once –while I was heading to Redwater Slough to kill Hindaril. At least Perennia was a little more in tune with this child.

The inn was fairly empty this evening – though that was no surprise with the storm outside. Sheets of driving rain had caught me halfway here –and it had been a very wet walk for Shadowmere and I both. Shadowmere, now safely ensconced in the stable out back, was so disgruntled I'd wound up giving her the very last of my store of nightshade, just so she wouldn't threaten to bite me.

Heheh…yeah – and here I thought we were friends. If you haven't noticed, _I'm_ soaked too.

The drawback of this location is that, like the Inn of Ill-Omen, it is often frequented by Imperial Legionnaires. However, as Andreas was happy to tell me, while I sipped on a nutty ale he called his latest masterpiece, with the weather like it was, he didn't expect much company this evening.

Good.

I struck late at night. Here's something about a couple spells you might not be aware of. There are two varieties of spell to allow a person to breathe underwater –there's the advanced version (I should say 'versions', because of duration variances) and the cantrip. With the advanced version you actually grow gills, sprout them right out of your neck. It's very uncomfortable, so I'm told – it's not a spell I know. The second spell, the lower-level cantrip which I do know, actually forces the lungs to want to breathe water, and fills them up for you, as you change from an air environment to an aqueous one. The spell needs to be reactivated every so often, because it's only a cantrip and its duration is rather limited. Used correctly…well.

There was a string of killings like this performed in Imperial City. Five victims, and the killer was caught by the Mages' Guild before he drowned the sixth. I wasn't on the detail for that – it happened some twenty years past, I wasn't nearly old enough - but it was required study for the young students.

History aside, while the spell is in effect, you breathe water until it either wears off, or you deactivate it – which releases the spell, allowing you to cough up all the water and breathe air properly again. It's a bit of a violent experience, struggling to breathe air when your body is screaming for water, I can tell you. I don't like to use the spell, because it's not very gentle. I suppose I should shell out and buy the manual for the advanced version, but I digress.

Holding that in mind, it becomes very easy to make someone drown like a fish drowns…and it would make anyone who saw the aftermath nervous - because it would be redolent with echoes of a particularly impressive bit of nastiness.

I swept over to the dozing Andreas and touched his shoulder, murmuring the signs first to paralyze, then to fill his lungs. The paralysis took without trouble, but adding the water to the mix…

I rolled Andreas onto his side, so he could cough it up – for there is a brief moment in the shift, where you cough up air, then start to cough up water. He began to gasp as if for air, and from there, it was like watching a man drown, only without the water. Just like a fish – the symptoms are almost the same - though I've never _seen_ the actual process of drowning.

It takes an obscenely long time for someone to drown. I had to keep reactivating the spell, wondering how long it would take. No one ever mentioned it took this long, even with this rather bizarre method. It will give the Legionnaires something to ponder over, when they eventually find him.

I got up from behind the bar as Andreas continued to struggle, but he was getting weaker. I do like that ale…so I drew myself another mugful and sipped at it, wandering over to the window to watched the storm. It still blew about unabated, and when I cast detect life, there was no one...except Shadowmere in the stable, and Andreas himself.

Andreas' life force was getting weaker, and it unsettled me not one whit to stand there, sipping ale and watching the light die, reactivating my spell as needed. I finished my ale and put the mug on the bar, along with payment for the drink. That will _really_ give the Legionnaires something to think about.

Well, Imperial City, next. With or without the rain.

--S--

I caught up with Matthias at a seedy tavern in the Imperial City, the kind of place you go to be left alone. I also decided that this one, at least, would be amusing. I've never actually been in a bar-fight, you know – and I figured this would be the time to do it. Normally I'd say it was so I'd have a story to tell when I got home…but as I have no 'home' to return to, much less 'family' I will make exception to my rule of subtlety and say 'what the hell and why not?'.

"You're Matthias Draconis, aren't you?" I asked, sitting down across from him.

Matthias hunched over his drink, scowling at me. "Why?"

I smiled. "It's a simple question. But – I suppose that's your equivalent of a simple answer," I said archly. It was my intent not to win any popularity points. See, for every spell to charm someone to like you…there are other spells. Darker spells, one might even say, although it's a very subjective statement. I prefer not to use them, but that does not mean that I don't _know_ them, or don't have them in my magical arsenal. A charm spell usually feels pleasant in the fingers, a soothing sensation to wipe the target's mind clear of dislike. This spell felt hot and prickly in my hand – something that would put him in a frenzy faster than my insulting his mother. Which was exactly what I intended to do, to spark off Matthias' temper, if it didn't spark immediately, goading him to attack without provocation.

That might not be a bad idea. I leaned forward. "Matthias," I hissed, rising to my feet, holding his gaze. Exactly what you _never_ do to a raging animal – which was what he was degenerating to, as the spell seeped in and found what angered him, what would touch off a spark of rage to wipe all sense clear off the slate.

"What?" he snarled.

I let the spell go, and for a moment red light imploded in his eyes. The only other cues to the spell's taking were Matthias' posture suddenly going rigid, shaking slightly, his eyes narrowing in perfect and total dislike. I blinked and smiled at him. "Your mother died like a pig – squealing and cursing like the day she pushed you out." I breathed, smiling sadistically.

I leapt back as Matthias let out a yell like a wounded boar. I shrieked as I stepped back and then as Matthias came at me, brandishing a broken bottle, I whipped the Blade of Woe loose and within moments it was done. Matthias lay face up, spread-eagle on the floor, while I pretended to breathe hard, and dropped the blade. "Did you see that?" I asked, contriving to sound utterly shocked. "Did you see him come at me?!"

Easy as pie – no one argues with self-defense. Particularly when there's a roomful of witnesses.

--S--

Sibylla was even easier. Isolated as she was, in Muck Valley Cavern, it would have been simple. The fact she came at me the moment she was aware of me, and brought her pets with her. Ugh, I prefer less Fighters' Guild styles jobs, but who cares? The job got done, and it got done quickly.

Magicka makes the world go round. It won't be long before someone realizing this string of murders is a string of family members will come looking for her.

I sighed and swung up onto Shadowmere's back. "Well, it'll take two days to get to Skingrad…so let's get walking."

Shadowmere whickered as she took off at a prance.

"No. We're not going to see Lucien. He'll have to hustle to get to Skingrad before we do," I answered. Truthfully, I really wanted to swing up north and east and drop by to see how he was doing. See if he'd come up with anything…but there was something…a dark tug I don't think I've ever felt before, that warned me against doing it. That warned me to keep my distance…and it has nothing to do with the fact Lucien wanted to limit contact.

Shadowmere jostled and whiffled.

I sighed and patted her shoulder. "I don't know – it's just a bad feeling. The kind I don't like to ignore…come on – maybe we can catch him if we pick up the pace."

Maybe I should swing by, see Sinderion. I hope he _remembers_ me – he's a little, you know…senile.

--Author's notes appended--

It takes five minutes – roughly - to drown someone.


	58. Chapter 58

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my _horrible _grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Broken Vows

--

I slipped into the courtyard of Skingrad at high noon, while the guards were at their most lethargic and least watchful. I didn't want Count Hassildor presented with the opportunity to ask me potentially awkward questions…like why he might not have heard from Vicente for awhile. I did not particularly like the idea of trying to lie to him, to his face, if he could hear my heartbeat like Vicente did. So, I simply chose not to give him an opportunity to interrogate me - because I suspect his intelligence is very good, and he would know I was in town. It has to be, him being isolated from the actual happenings himself.

A cover is so hard to maintain. I get the nasty feeling that my threat to blow said cover would only result in a fight I'm not ready for. Not necessarily a physical struggle…but you know how messy blackmail can be. If you don't—it's very messy. It only works so long as your mark is afraid of you, and of the consequences.

I retrieved my orders and rejoined Shadowmere outside the city, relatively unnoticed. I didn't even stop in to see Sinderion – though I really ought to. He's such an interesting person to chat to about alchemy. Maybe he'd have an idea how to take the visual effects out of a nighteye potion. I think I have an idea how to do it - but neither the equipment nor the materials at the moment. I need my workbench…

Anyway. Maybe once things settle down…how many times have I said _that_ recently?

I noticed it immediately and stopped walking. The handwriting on the note – which opened at my touch- was…different. Odd…I blinked, feeling unease settle in my stomach. "He's…really under a lot of pressure Shadow-love…" I said slowly, looking at the jitter in the handwriting. And yet…somehow…there's something not…

Shadowmere bumped my shoulder with her nose and I looked up, smiling slightly. "I'm being silly…" I tuned the paper over. It's got his seal on it – LL, in the forefinger of the hand. Not where I figured it belonged, but that's not the point.

I went over my instructions, watching the handwriting jitter, like it was about to slide right off the page.

The target was a Khajiiti noble, by the name of J'Ghasta. According to the contract he lived in Bruma, and had jilted some Cryodiilic noble's daughter, upon finding her dowry to be…negligible was Lucien's word. I could see where the trouble lay. The Cryodiilic nobility has so little to do most days that this constitutes grounds for a lifelong feud. And the opening move is usually an assassination.

Rich and bored…sounds like I used to be. Except while I used to practice making poisons, J'Ghasta apparently thinks of himself as a boxer – unarmed combat. I felt a tinge of unease: Khajiiti are the sort I like to take out from a distance. Not only are they wicked fast, they've got claws like razors and teeth they aren't afraid to use. They go on my 'perfect predators' list, just after vampires.

Lucien didn't need to warn me to be careful.

Worse, I scowled: J'Ghasta suspects the girl's family might take out a contract…in short he'll expect me, or someone like me. Damn – that means I have to do this face to face. Supposedly he – J'Ghasta – bribed the local guards to 'look the other way' if something happens and our fight goes public. Well, all the same, I'd prefer they didn't know, until all they can do is plant him in the ground. Shrouded armor is necessary for this job, and a bit of a giveaway for the guards. They're not completely stupid, whatever I like to say to the contrary.

I felt a quiver of unease as I memorized the important points of the missive and then burned it, letting the breeze blow the cinders from my hand. Something about this is…off. However, I know better than to go back to Farragut – I doubt Lucien will even _be_ there. And he'll be pissed if I show up just because he had a bad day and scribbled a note instead of writing it out neatly.

Oh, yeah –that'll get me kicked straight back to murderer. Not happening. It's got his seal. It knew my touch. I'm getting paranoid…fetching Bellamont. I'll find a way to blame this on him – just watch.

"Well, we're going to Bruma…" I announced to Shadowmere as I swung up onto her back. "It'll be snowing…" It's always snowing, or getting ready to snow in Bruma.

Still wouldn't it…

No. It's not safe. Farragut is not safe right now. Best I keep my distance.

--S--

To say I do not like the feel of this contract does not adequately cover it. J'Ghasta's house was very easy to find – a small building with the door unlocked. I slipped in after dark, so my chameleon spell would make me almost invisible. No one noticed the unlocked front door ease open to allow a wraith entrance.

The house was quiet – but not too quiet. Quiet like a great beastie holding its breath as the unsuspecting snack wanders so sweetly into its massive jaws…that kind of quiet. Detect life sighted J'Ghasta beneath the floor. What is it with people and hidden rooms these days? I know the Oblivion Crisis is turning the world nuts, but that doesn't mean we have to get all crazy-like.

The trapdoor leading to the next level lay in a corner, hastily half-hidden. It did not strike me as a particularly carefully-done thing – more like to keep anyone who didn't know away. This sort of trick doesn't work on assassins.

I opened the hatch and dropped down, landing silently at the bottom, in a crouch. I straightened and set my bag of gear by my feet, and undid my cloak, folding it neatly. J'Ghasta's lifeforce continued batting at whatever equipment he had, soft grunts accompanying each successive blow. Good – he'll be tired…but by the same token, he'll also be primed for a fight.

I checked my gear: Blade of Woe, Sufferthorn – set. Striding forward I appeared in the doorway.

J'Ghasta looked up and stopped beating the stuffing out of the large bag of what was probably sawdust, suspended from the ceiling beams. "Well," he said, looking me over. "Do come in," he waved, stepping away from the punching bag, giving himself room to move.

I stepped into the room and looked over J'Ghasta. This one was no mean opponent. I could see muscle rippling beneath his whitening coat, and I had the impression that although he was quite a bit older than me…rich and bored were not adequate descriptions. Smart and strong are far more appropriate. My stomach quivered at the feral gleam in the Khajiit's golden eyes.

"What? Are you impressed? Never seen one like me before?" J'Ghasta teased, flexing for my benefit.

I smiled coldly. "Hardly impressive. I was merely saying a little prayer…to speed your soul along its way. I'm finished now," I answered, marking the expression of dislike that flickered across the predatory features, "at your convenience."

"Come, then, little assassin," J'Ghasta purred, his thin lips peeling back from his teeth in a mocking smile. "Bare your pretty little neck and I'll make it quick for you."

I smiled, but it was the last thing I really wanted to do. Despite my bravado, this mission felt wrong – there was something destabilizing in J'Ghasta's confidence…as if he somehow, impossibly…knew me. Or knew of me. It's a long while since I came across a mark so obviously confident in his ability to kill me. Almost as confident as I usually felt, secure in my ability to kill him…it's very unsettling. "That would be my line," I responded without giving a hint to my inner disquiet. That's just what he wants, I'm sure – if he can break my concentration, my professionalism…he's got me. Then again, if he can do that, I don't deserve to be doing this. "So since you've stolen it…steal my answer as well." I finished seamlessly.

"Well," he purred and flexed his back and shoulders until his spine crackled and popped. It might impress others, but I used to live with M'raaj. He could pop and flex like that too –and did. It bothered Teinaava, and M'raaj liked to harass Teinaava…_focus _stupid! Khajiiti have a more supple backbone than humans and they can _jump_ unbelievably fast, and at incredible distance, it's the way their legs are sometimes shaped, like their feline…cousins?

I never asked M'raaj…

My attention was yanked back forcibly when J'Ghasta gave a roar in my direction and raised his hands to a guard position. I flinched at the sound – it rang in my ears like a war horn - but did not back up. Out of the velvety paw-like fingers shot two inches or more of curved, cruel claws. Retractable fingernails, just like a cat's.

Holy shit. I never saw M'raaj do _that…_

J'Ghasta smiled, but his muzzle crinkled in anger, his ears pulled back flat against his skull, and he crooked his fingers at me. "Come little killer – dance with me," he rumbled, eyes glittering like a creature with bloodlust in its nostrils.

"Who am I to refuse such an invitation?" Something sparkled slightly in the Khajiit's eyes. It was gone in seconds…almost as if he recognized something I had said, or some mannerism. I smiled and adjusted my weight so I could fling myself to one side or the other the instant he…

The Khajiit was fast – almost too fast, and he expected me to dodge to one side. I turned the attempted tumble to the left into a simple fall – barely ahead of his claws, rolling and tumbling back, trying to watch him as the world spun. I darted left the instant I had my feet and stumbled.

Damn he's fast!

Luck saved me. As I stumbled, his blow went wide and as I flayed he was forced back, lest Sufferthorn slit him across the belly. It would only inflict a wounding blow – but for me a deadly misjudgment, for if you wound a Khajiit…well, like with any creature, they're most fierce when wounded.

J'Ghasta laughed at me as I regained my balance, and clapped his paws together. "Not bad for a human. It's almost a shame to kill you…" he leered.

He was in my face, and only sparring with Vicente enabled me to move fast enough to deflect one blow, with my forearm against his, his claws perilously close to my face – and the other with my knife. There is no way I could hold him off without that second block.

J'Ghasta howled in pain and clobbered me to the face, using the back of his paw as he flailed – more to get me and my wicked knife away from him than to kill me, reacting in pain and not acting with deliberation.

I reeled with the blow and hit the ground, Sufferthorn spinning from my hand and I yelped in pain and fear. I had saved myself serious damage by moving with the blow but…

I had just lost my best weapon.

Don't panic…I tried to go for my Blade of Woe, but the movement was too awkward, the way I'd landed pinning her to the ground. Oh shit...

"Fool!" J'Ghasta regained his composure and darted forward. He kicked me, and I think two of my ribs broke, then he hauled me up, his clawed hand around my throat, letting me dangle above him, above the ground. His injured arm continued staining his fur crimson, dripping down to fall in puddles on the padded floor, his uninjured arm supporting me. I could feel the pinpricks of his claws in my neck, though my armor.

He didn't get any further than calling me a fool, because the idiot forgot one thing. The most important thing…

You don't have to fight fair when you're an assassin. Especially if you're a lady. I kicked him in the groin as hard as I could, dangling like I was, grunting with the effort I put into the attack.

J'Ghasta dropped me with a high-pitched scream-like whimper. Khajiit or not he's still a male - and I kicked at him again, landing unceremoniously once he dropped me, but unwilling to risk his getting up after the initial pain and shock wore off. This time the attack went wide, and hit him in the thigh. Fortunately, my first kick had been particularly vicious, buying me time.

Heart pounding, I gained my feet and dove for my knife, turning in time to slash across his outstretched hands as he stumbled towards me, hissing and spitting in the unintelligible Ta'agra of Elsweyr, his golden eyes clouding with rage and pain.

It was only then I realized he _couldn't_ _feel the pain_ _anymore_. I backed up, my heart threatening to bang out of my chest – this is no mean opponent and now….Either he's reached his threshold, where pain ceases to register, where the mind and body can no longer take anymore, or he had succumbed to some sort of madness.

Too slow!

I screamed aloud, the sound tearing at my throat as J'Ghasta's claws rent my side, his blow a little cockeyed from the wounds to his arm and hands. In this, I was lucky. The injuries kept it a wounding blow, not a killing one. He only grazed me, but he shredded through my armor like wet parchment, straight to my skin, opening searing lines in my side, his claws scoring the bones.

And he was strong – very strong. He could snap me in half if he wanted to…

I screamed again as I spun about with the force of the glancing blow and hit the ground and lay there, partially stunned, partially hoping he'd just be stupid enough to get in close, if he thought I was dead. Oh…can I even…cast like this…?

Still the breath…fake death…playing possum…

Magicka…I summoned up the image of M'raaj Dar smiling at me as I'd held the flame spell, felt the warm, reassuring tickle of magicka and magical flames running through my body, while he'd toasted marshmallows on the dancing flames.

_See? There's no need to be afraid – the fire is your friend. It will protect you. _I could almost feel his velvety paw on my shoulder as I lay there, still as death, bleeding, feeling the blood soak into my poor damaged armor, filling the mats and pouring out my life, my strength wastefully spilling onto the ground.

_For Sithis' sake, keep your head_ down!

_It will protect you_.

_Get up. _

_I can't…_

_Get. Up. _

Pressure pounded in my head as I lay there, facedown and still. I can't give up. I'm not allowed…

It was a struggle of self control to hide my breathing, pain searing through my entire body. I could _feel_ myself weakening. Is he watching, with detect-life, watching my life-force dim and go out, as I have for countless others?

No…Khajiiti…Khajiiti don't…aren't usually…bingo.

Seconds ticked. I heard…actually felt the impact his paws on the mats and continued to feign stillness, my hand still clenched around Sufferthorn. He moved very surely, and very cautiously, and still I continued to lay as if dead, or very close to death…which might not be so far from the truth.

But I don't fear death. I'll see the others…and we'll sit at the feet of our Dread Father, having lived and died in the service of him, and of his Lady…

_Get up!_

I have to…I'm not allowed to…quit…

Something like energy rushed through me. I have to do this. I can't stop now.

"Your soul speeds to the Void, little assassin," J'Ghasta purred and a moment later he'd hefted me by the collar, plainly thinking I was dead, or close enough to dying.

I hung limp, unresisting, slack. This only works once…

"You died like a fool…" he breathed, his muzzle so close to my face, my ear that his whiskers tickled.

I turned my head and opened my eyes. Green clashed against amber, and his pupils contracted as a sadistic, exhausted smile tugged at my mouth. "I'm not dead yet…kitty-boo." With what strength I had I rammed Sufferthorn into his belly

J'Ghasta screamed like I had before, and reeled back, shocked at the weapon protruding from his stomach.

I pulled the Blade of Woe from her sheath and yelled fiercely as if the sound could concentrate all my remaining resources into the blow, swinging high and cutting across J'Ghasta's throat – the flailing wound wasn't deep enough to kill but it sprayed and gushed, spattering hot and metallic-smelling.

I didn't take time to wipe the blood away – there wasn't a moment to spare. I was running on desperation and denial.

J'Ghasta thrashed, scrabbling at his throat, trying to staunch the bleeding, and I merely staggered backwards, letting him bleed out as he tried to save himself, his hands going from throat to the wicked blade stuck in his torso.

Sufferthorn remained lodged where it sunk, not at the right angle to pierce J'Ghasta's diaphragm, but if that wound – made worse by his flailing, pain robbing him of reason – doesn't kill him, the slash to his throat eventually will. But that's time…too much time…if I bounced back, he might too.

I sunk to the floor, suddenly near the wall. I leaned against it, leaving a bloody smear behind me as I slid down, panting from pain and exertion, watching J'Ghasta flail. This is it…

J'Ghasta managed to pull the dagger out with a feral scream that numbed my chilling extremities. He flung the weapon at me, but pain made him misjudge the throw. Sufferthorn landed some several feet to my left and I gazed exhaustedly up at him, drawing with difficulty the signs for detect-life. He had made a mistake. I would not.

_I give you strength in the face of pain._

…Huh…?

The air was so heavy with the smell of blood that I felt dizzy…dizzier…or maybe it was because I'd lost quite a bit myself. I reached down to the searing wounds and hissed as my fingers found the tattered edges of my once porcelain-pale skin. The wound stung sharply and I jerked my hand away, my armor shifting with a squelch, bloated with blood, now trickling down my side, saturating my clothes…

I can't do this…I'm so tired…

The world pitched as my leaden eyelids tried to close and stay closed. Something kept forcing them back open, and I managed, after a struggle, to right myself, and gain my feet, using the wall for support. An ominously dark puddle on the floor where I'd been laying, and more spatter from the way I'd whipped about, now mixed with J'Ghasta's.

I had no strength to fight a physical fight…I'd have to rely on magicka for this…not sure I can pull a spell…

Fire. I had been distracted by pain, by hazy, warm, furry memories…

It was taking J'Ghasta an obscenely long time to die – the throat wound, after all, wasn't as deep as I'd have liked, but I wasn't about to make his mistake of getting in close, to gloat or deliver a personal sort of killing blow – his life force wasn't healthy-bright, but he could still do me serious hurt.

I struggled with fuzzing mind and failing body to find the incantation, the signs for a fireball, one that would finish my job. Magicka ran into my fingers in a rush, as if to say it had simply been waiting for me to ask…at first I thought it was just more blood, it trailed so readily to my fingers, warm as it was.

_Would it _kill _you to ask?_

_Ask? _

I forced focus, before I lost the spell, and then threw it at J'Ghasta. The room immediately filled with sizzling and the smell of burning fur. He didn't even have time to scream.

I crashed down to the floor, the pain jolting me back to somewhere near full conscious and clarity. I started to shake as I rolled over, screeching as my side screamed in red-hot blinding agony.

Charred, J'Ghasta's mortal shell lay on the ground. My vision threatened to cloud into darkness…the spell…it was…too powerful… I was in no condition to be using magicka like that…but I did not see that I had any choice. It might have run away and killed me…J'Ghasta certainly would have…I collapsed face first on the mats and lay there. The life force had gone out. I could take a moment to pull myself together…

…from J'Ghasta's head, down to Sufferthorn, everything was charred and blackened: like an obscene parody of a living shape. Sufferthorn would undoubtedly be too hot to handle, and yet I couldn't leave it here. It would tie me to the crime. And I couldn't have that.

I couldn't stay here either…I have to get up now. Feet first – walking starts with…no, walking starts with the knee…never mind. It doesn't matter, what matters is me getting my ass up off this floor.

A wave of dizziness knocked me to the ground as soon as I got to my knees, and I sprawled on the mats again, heedless of blood, sweat, the thick smell of death and a messy kill and stared at the ceiling.

I have to do something about this wound before I can get up. There –that's what I missed before.

I reached down feebly and found my belt. Caught safely in it was a single vial of a very strong potion. It won't heal the wounds, they're too extreme, but it is a start: give me the clarity, the chance to do something more lasting before I bled out like a rank amateur…what the hell kind of contract…

I could die here…I couldn't put Lucien through losing another silencer…losing another Family member…the very last of the Cheydinhal branch…

I shook like a woman dying of cold as I finally managed to down the contents of the bottle and put it back –again, nothing to tie me here. No trace of who or what had been here: just the certainty that this was murder – and bloody. Very bloody…

I rolled to my knees slowly, laboriously, and reclaimed Sufferthorn, wrapping the weapon in my cloak, which I had had to retrieve. Never had a hallway seemed so long…

I have to get out of here…

I collapsed again as it tried to get to my feet, my head pounding, blood pounding in my temples…

I lay still as I could, biting my lip to stifle my own whimpers of pain. I'd never hurt like this before, and it was terrifying. For a few moments I wondered what in Oblivion I was _doing_ here, killing people for a living, living with a covey of killers in an underground fortress…

Which answered my question, really.

And it was 'lived', not 'living'. I closed my eyes and felt tears sting them as I collected what was left of my magical reserves and did my best to cast myself back to some semblance of 'healed'. It was slow, laborious work, unaided by the distraction of pain and one continuously pounding thought.

_I have to get out of here. _


	59. Chapter 59

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Final Justice

--

I couldn't get onto Shadowmere's back. The horse, however, took one look at me, sniffed at my injured side and then knelt obligingly, so I could flop onto her back. Once I was situated, she held still for a moment, making sure I was really set and then got up, a little awkwardly, but carefully, and took off at smooth canter, taking me away from the city. I half-sat half-lay, draped across her back, eyes closed, panting and trying not to show the pain that wracked me. I wasn't bleeding like a stuck pig anymore, but I wasn't healed either.

I began to shake slightly. "We need to find a safe place to rest," I said to Shadowmere, but my voice came out strained and weakened.

--S--

"Whoa there…"

Strange voices…I must have passed out. I flailed as I was pulled carefully but firmly from Shadowmere's back. "Back!" I shouted and flailed, landing hard on cold, wet ground. Not frozen, but not muddy either…I'm not that far from Bruma then…

Breathing hard, I suspended the 'where am I' thoughts and focused on the 'how am I' – the answer was 'not so well.' I hurt, I felt like my armor was saturated…nonsense. It _is_ saturated, saturated and shredded, I must look like I just tangled with a..Khajiit…this could take some explaining….

Later. I'll explain later.

I forced a spell into my hands – I've got to stop the pain…I can't think straight…

Feet sloshing on damp ground…it's…I opened my eyes to find faces lit by torchlight peering down at me.

"…looks like bandits…"

"...you hear me…?" a woman was asking anxiously. "Can you hear me? Just nod, or shake your head…"

"I hear…" I answered and forced myself to sit up. "Shh," I reached up and found that Shadowmere was out of reach.

She whinnied as if I ought to take my own advice and I struggled to my feet, but yelped –the fall had reopened the wounds in my side. I hit the ground again, sweating and shaking, my body screaming in protest. ugh…now I know I'm going to live…you don't hurt like this when you're dying…dammit…

"Oh, the poor thing! Here, get her into the inn, yes?"

I was helped to my feet, and helped to hobble off – more like I was half-dragged half-carried between two well-meaning people.

"What happened, lass? Was it bandits?" someone was asking again.

"Sure…" I answered, my head spinning.

--S--

Shadowmere made better time than I'd expected. Turns out, she took us straight south of Bruma – the way I'd initially been steering us - to the settlement of Bleaker's Way. A hamlet consisting of two families and one feud ready to come to a head, my arrival broke up the usual order of business.

With access to a workbench and a decent place to rest it was only a day and a half before I was ready to press on to the Old Bridge, just south of the Imperial City to get my next set of orders. You can see the Imperial City from the Bridge, even if it's a rather out of the way place. Gotta remember to watch for bandits – they like to prowl around that area.

Can't be worse than J'Ghasta, though…he's scarred me for life. Good thing they're in a place most people will never see, and as I don't plan to take up Elswerian tribal dancing….

Dammit…if he made shredded meat out of my side, I cringe to think what he'd have done to my _face_.

"Are you sure you're all right to be travelling?" Kirsten, the Goodwill Inn's proprietress, asked anxiously as I hefted my gear into the lobby. I still suffer a lot of pain, but mostly it's like too many stiff muscles. The actual wounds were beginning to scar at the ends, and only showed pink and raw near the center, where they were deepest. At least they don't tear open anymore.

The bad news was that this was the end of my shrouded armor – totally beyond repair. It means stopping in the Imperial City for a new suit.

…No. No, I can't. Just the thought makes me queasy…too many bad memories…

"Dagmar?"

"Yes? I'm sorry," I looked up at Kirsten.

"I asked, are you sure you're all right to be travelling? We never did find those bandits who attacked you…"

I sighed. "You won't," I shook my head. "That lot'll be far away from here, I'm sure. Why stick around when half a village is looking for you?" Kirsten looked ready to argue, but I dropped a purse on the bar. "Thank you, for your help and hospitality, but I can't stay any longer. People will worry when I don't arrive in a timely fashion," I smiled. "You know how family is."

"Oh, we've nothing but that sort of trouble around here," Kirsten sighed, but she let the matter drop.

Shadowmere, at least, was glad we were leaving. Snugly stabled for the duration of my stay, she was almost ready to kick the stall down and run loose when I finally walked in to greet her. "Hello Shadow-love," I fed her a handful of nightshade berries before I put her bridle on with some real effort –as I was so achy.

Shadowmere chewed on my tunic's shoulder, leaving a dark spot on the dark fabric, a rich green. I usually look awful in green, but this was dark enough that it did not give me a jaundiced appearance.

"Yes, it's nice to see you too. Let's go – we've got work to do."

She poked her nose into my side and I winced, the muscles twitching to guard the site of J'Ghastas' claw marks. "It's all right," I said staunchly and swung onto her back. "I'm just a little stiff." She pranced slightly, but not to readjust where I sat. I'm actually getting quite good at riding bareback. I kicked her to a prance and we started off.

--S--

In the end, I didn't find any armor I really wanted in the Imperial City, so I simply chose from what they had – something that would keep my precious hide in more or less one piece. If I ever get the courage to go back to Cheydinhal, I can get the armor from Deepscorn…but honestly…I'm afraid to go back. Afraid I'll find that the others' souls have been tethered, that they'll manifest as ghosts, and that I'll have to fight them again.

This new armor is gross – it fits funny – it doesn't pull tight enough through the side and it's not half as heavily-enchanted as my old suit, it just doesn't fit as well as I'd like it to. Unfortunately, I have to break it in – which means wearing it. I shifted uncomfortably and Shadowmere whickered. Thank goodness my boots survived all right.

"Ugh…I feel like I'm _molting_," I complained softly, scratching the horse behind her ears. "Come on – let's get a move on," I gave Shadowmere a nudge and she broke into a gallop. She seemed to blur again, as if she were becoming darkness. It's amazing that most people don't notice – I've noticed that people react to her as though she were merely very intimidating…not as if there was anything unusual about her. It's strange…but I'm not complaining. I did worry, once, that she'd attract too much attention. But she's like me.

_Discreet. _

--S--

I winced at the fourth line of Lucien's note to me…and this time not because his handwriting was bad.

_You are a useful tool indeed. Let's see if you can continue to impress me_.

I bit my lip. Is that all I am? A tool? I had the impression he thought a little better of me – as a person, and as a professional.

Shadowmere nudged my slumping shoulder and I shook my head, swallowing. It doesn't matter…we all have off days – how many times have I called him a bastard by now? He probably doesn't realize how big a slap in the face that comment is.

Unease stirred in my gut, but I squelched it. This is no time to lose my nerve…though I have to admit, I don't feel like myself. I haven't felt like myself since before I…before I enacted the Purification.

Don't think about it, Sari. It doesn't help you, here and now.

Still, the note didn't make my day any better. In fact, I read it three times before I decided that this couldn't be a joke – no one has that kind of sick sense of humor. Not in the Dark Brotherhood anyway. Vengeance killings are not a problem – I can handle that. What I can't handle – or rather, think might be a little problematic, is attacking an Argonian in a place that is probably not named 'Flooded Mine' for no reason at all. So an Argonian psychopath, in the water…with what?

I fingered Sufferthorn. Not much, if that's my only weapon.

Khajiit are consummate predators on land…Argonians are doubly-dangerous in the water. They can see in the dark and breathe underwater without spells – and I'd need both. On top of that, their tails act like the rudder of a ship, meaning they can move very quickly underwater – an advantage I lack. I can swim just fine, I'm fairly good at it. I love to swim, even – and underwater exploring is always fun.

However, I'm not an Argonian, and so I'm just as clumsy as anyone else, once I'm literally in over my head. I looked back at the note. It's a good thing that this _is_, as Lucien noted, a bit out of the Morag Tong's reach – apparently Shaleez, the contract, killed a Dunmer family near the Black Marsh-Morrowind border, and then ran here.

I scowled at the note again, chewing on my lip as I did so. An Argonian...and from the location, she'll be underwater. And that is one place a human has no business—in the water to kill an Argonian. That's like calling out Mehrunes Dagon in his own playground.

But I've got to admit, me, myself, personally? I wouldn't mind letting the Tong have this one – it's a nasty job, and my ribs still ache. However…there's nothing really wrong with me. It's just a little past the bounds of 'normal abuse'.

I rolled my eyes: I would use that simile, wouldn't I? On the other hand, a job's a job. I memorized the missive and looked at the seal again: Lucien must be getting raked over the coals. His handwriting's _really_ starting to go, but still – it's his seal. It knows my touch.

I sighed as I burned the missive, then swung up onto Shadowmere's back, and clicked my tongue, instead of kicking her.

I didn't realize this until she started to walk.

"We're hunting Argonians this time…or rather, an Argonian," I sighed and leaned forward on her back, toying with her mane. We've come to a sort of understanding – I don't try to be clever and she won't make the ride harrowing, or give me much attitude. It's still obvious she likes Lucien better. I don't mind, really. So do I. Like Lucien better, I mean.

Shadowmere's good company though – I might wish she were there to watch his back…but I appreciate her. I swear, she's smarter than some humans I know.

--S--

The Flooded Mine is aptly named. I knew it. I didn't get ten feet in before I found myself knee-deep in water. The drip-drip left little doubt that it was about to get a whole lot deeper.

I sighed and waded in further, until, if I dropped to my knees, I'd be fully submerged. I pinched my nose, covered my mouth while forming the spell that would let me breathe water, and swallowed hard. It always feels like a hard swallow. I choked and gagged, feeling water fly from my mouth. I hit the water as I fell forward, wracked by choking coughs and took a deep breath, then my breathing returned to normal, as I took in water instead of air, easing the pain in my lungs.

I hate this spell. You'd think with all the advances in modern magicka we'd have something a little more gentle. I massaged my chest, though my armor, my lungs feeling prickly and uncomfortable. I already had cast nighteye and detect life on myself –no sense letting Shaleez sneak up on me – and kicked against the bottom, swimming as best I could, with Sufferthorn in one hand.

With no idea how far down or along these flooded passages went, I had no idea what to expect, except that Shaleez would be aware of company before long. Argonians are more sensitive to movement in water than humans. I suppose I could have tried to lure her onto dry land, but if I were a murderer on the lam, I wouldn't answer to any obvious bait to get me to leave my sanctuary.

Now, if an intruder showed up, that would be different, particularly if I had the advantage.

The shaft opened out into a large room – what had once been the planned central point of some kind of junction. Or maybe the shaft engineers got lost and simply looped back, I don't know.

I opened my mouth and let out a wordless shout as something slammed into me, rolling me in the water. For a moment I lost track of 'up' and 'down' – I simply _was._

Oh…I'm not _dressed_ like an assassin…there's a chance Shaleez here doesn't even realize what I am…yet. Better make use of that, she's not going to stay ignorant for long.

I caught sight of a reptilian leg vanishing and realized that my presentiment about Shaleez knowing she had guests was truer than I liked.

I turned and managed to block a blow from the Argonian – she was armed to the teeth, and in an Argonian's case, that's almost like facing a Khajiit. If it weren't for magical shields, she'd have cut my arm off.

A quick succession of blows followed – most of which I blocked magically –though she did manage to cut through the shield and into my bracer, but thankfully not into my arm.

The fight's getting no better. She's just too fast…what can I do?

Do, do, something to do…I reactivated the spell and blocked another attack, again knocked about like a toy in a tub…

Tub…don't bathe during a lightning storm…lightning.

Oh dammit…but it's all I've got right now.

I clenched my teeth and pressed the first spell into my chest and let the second explode in the water, radiating out from me, just as I heard the telltale press of water against my eardrums.

My spell shielding me against shocks – particularly shocks in water - was not enough to keep me from feeling the power that filled the water. It would jump into the unprotected Argonian like arrows to their mark as soon as she was in range. I grit my teeth, painful stinging prickling into every inch of my body – doubly so where J'Ghasta's claw-marks were.

Still just a little sensitive…

Shaleez streaked into the electrified range of the spell and shrieked, thrashing as she took the brunt of the spell, unprotected, unable to get to me, unable to get out of range. I closed my eyes and forced nearly every last iota of power out of myself and into the water, leaving only enough magicka to reactivate my water-breathing spell, and to cast detect life. I swam towards Shaleez, almost dead and pulled Sufferthorn, coming up from below and slitting her throat.

Argonian blood, thick and viscous permeated the water. It was only here, now that the threat was eliminated, that I noticed she'd wreaked havoc on my armor. Dammit…I should have brought the stuff from Deepscorn…no one's seen a Crimson Scar in twelve years…what are the odds someone would recognize it? Who cares if the knife felt gross? The armor was fine!

I turned and paddled out of the Flooded Mine, violently coughing up water until I felt like I was about to cough up a lung as well.

Groaning, I dragged myself to the entrance before flopping down outside, lying on my back and breathing hard.

The sunlight fell dappled across the ground, mottled by the leaves of trees overhead. Shadowmere's hooves crunched the ground nearby and I waved weakly. "I'm not going _anywhere_…" I rasped as a breeze touched my face. It's getting warmer…I could nap here really…but it'd be a bad idea. It's so unprotected…I'm not _that_ far from Deep…

No. No…I don't want to bother with it right now...

Don't I?

I opened my eyes and looked skywards, squinting at the backlit canopy of leaves. What's wrong with me? Aside from the fact I keep getting my ass handed back to me, before I pull some last-minute desperate stunt…ugh, I remember jobs _never_ used to be like this.

After two very nasty fights, I'm starting to feel like Lucien probably feels half the time—worn out and a little cranky, but hiding it.

I want to sleep in a _bed_. Preferably somewhere with a _bath. _And something tasty both for supper and dessert. Make that a double on dessert.

I scowled – my mind tripped a double entendre for me, and I had to repress the flash of brown eye is my direction. I must be going crazy. "What happened to 'planning'?" I demanded of no one in particular. "What happened to _tactics_? You're not thinking, you knucklehead…" I grunted to myself and sat up, "and it's going to get you killed."

What is _wrong_ with me? I swear, I feel like my head is full of cotton batting half the time…


	60. Chapter 60

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Fifty-Nine: A Matter of Honor

--

Another gorgeous sunny day in the Nibenay Basin. You'd never know someone was plotting murder—the day was that nice.

But someone is plotting murder, and someone is reading her orders on who to kill. That someone, of course, being tireless and exhausted me. It's a good thing I enjoy my work most of the time, or I'd seriously consider changing vocations.

Three days at an inn with nothing to do other than eat, sleep, and make poisons did wonders not just for my poor battered body, but for my state of mind. I haven't felt this normal in quite a while. I don't ache, and I can sleep through the night without waking up half the inn. The nightmares aren't getting better—I'm just getting better at dealing with them.

Speaking of getting better, there's something that's not—Lucien's handwriting. It's not degenerated any further, though it still looked pretty bad. I'll bet that means the investigation into 'real proof of Bellamont's treachery' isn't going well. I gnawed on a slice of potato bread as I read the next bout of orders.

I'd love to help—though if he's not making any progress on his own, I doubt I'd be much use, except as someone to vent to. Oh well. At least Bellamont seems to have given up on me as too tough a target. I suppose I should be grateful, but I'm actually disappointed. I'd have liked to catch him myself. He can't be any worst than J'Ghasta, right?

I winced at the memory.

I've got to do some serious thinking before I, pardon the allusion, 'just wade on in'. I am _so_ tired of getting my ass kicked. Hell, Vicente would kick my ass—if he could—for taking so many dumb risks. Looking back…what was I _thinking_?

Was I thinking at all? It sure doesn't look that way. The fact is, those are all rank amateur's mistakes…good grief. I _should_ get kicked back to murderer and be made to climb up the ladder all over again.

I bit off another chunk of potato bread, thoroughly irritated and determined to think this thing through before I went gallivanting off. 'Good fight' my ass.

Target: Alval Uvani, Dunmer, master of destruction magicka. Of course—the Dunmer race turns out more mages of quality than any other, or so it's always seemed to me. Or maybe they are better at garnering notoriety. Especially their Telvanni mages…whoo. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of one of those. They're supposed to be absolutely vicious.

I marvel at Vicente for his friend…Valerian.

That _can't_ be her real name. Not that it matters, unless she shows up and wants to know why I took out her…you know, I know Vicente told Antoinetta it was a business relationship, but…ugh! It doesn't _matter_!

I sniffed and reached up, rubbing the treacherous prickling sensation out of my eyes.

I'm not crying. I'm not going to…I've got plenty to do and throwing myself a pity party isn't one of those things…I can't change it…I've just got to live with it…

_I give you courage in the face of guilt_.

It's a nice thought…not exactly warm fuzzy feelings though…but more like a warm hand on a cold, tired shoulder. Wish I had a real shoulder rub right about now. I could use the human contact—it's hard, after awhile, deciphering horse.

…_courage in the face of guilt. _

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I'll take comfort where I can find it. Courage too—I can always do with a little more of that

I opened my eyes and looked at the jittering letters on the paper, and waited until they began to make sense again, spending a few moments staring thorough the paper. Oh _damn_. Back to Leyawiin? I _hate_ being in Leyawiin! Lucien, you're going get me caught or killed if we keep this up. Well, technically _I'll_ get myself caught or killed, so think I'll just dispense with the theatrics this time, do the job, and get out as quickly as possible.

I don't believe in the popular assassins' concept of 'lucky cities' but the others do…did. _Hell_.

There's this superstition—and assassins are a superstitious bunch by nature. It keeps us cautious. The prevalent belief is every assassin has two cities: one in which they will always succeed, and succeed big …and one city in which they are doomed to forever flub, fail, and otherwise foul any contract they undertake. It's the people who delegate that are required to know who has bad feelings about which city.  
Like I said, I don't believe in that, but I have to admit, working in Leyawiin gives me the creeps—even though I've never had a problem there. Maybe it's just because Phillida was so visible, and so many people _saw _me.

Well, Uvani's definitely not affiliated with the Telvanni house—if he was, his disillusioned wife would have done away with him herself. Again, this is a little far for the Tong to reach, as apparently his old lady wants this done quickly.

What is it with doing the Tong's jobs these days? This is two contracts in a row that would usually have fallen to them, but came to us instead. Is that unusual?

I remembered the agents Lucien and I took care of at the border.

No, not odd at all, I suppose, if people want revenge fast and convenient…it's not like they join either group.

Uvani will also have an ancestral ghost, in addition to his magicka…silence spells aren't too much help you don't have to be able to speak to cast, unless you're not well-trained, or just not particularly powerful…destruction magicka. Means my fireballs and icicles aren't going to be much help unless I want him to _laugh_ himself to death. In fact, I think it's best if he doesn't even see me…hmm.

Now _that's_ interesting…

Uvani suffers a rare Dunmer condition—an allergy to honey. Like Vicente's allergy to garlic…if I can get him to ingest it, it'll work like a poison, and weaken him. I chewed on my lip and looked at the other paper, folded with the contract, Uvani's scheduled stops in Cyrodiil.

He's in Bravil day after tomorrow—and Leyawiin tomorrow. From here I could get to either place in good time. No, we'll take it slow. I'll catch him in Bravil, provided I have a plan. I like the idea of spiking his drink—honey's not hard to come by, and if I put it in something that tastes pretty strong to begin with, he won't notice it.

Strong—he'd have to be drinking Elswerian coffee and take it _black_. That stuff would take the roof off a Dunmer's mouth. Usually we soft-mouthed foreigners just sugar it up and milk it down.

How hard is it to get a Dunmer drunk enough that his guard goes down?

I got to my feet and finished off my potato bread. I need to find some honey. It won't go good with the rest of the bread, but it won't go good with Uvani either. Then again, that's what I want—a nice, subtle way of getting him to a point where he can't roast me like a harvest pig.

I am _not_ getting the crap beat out of me again, I really am not. However, it's not going to be easy to get him to drink the honey—it's not like it's a flavorless, tasteless thing, like some poisons…hmm. I wonder if he's proof against a poisoned cocktail? Honey will immobilize him—maybe even more…and a couple tasteless poisons could very easily kill him in seconds…Mmm.

This contract is still really iffy. Makes me think a proper Silencer – not a 'promoted for lack of other options' Silencer, like me - should take this one, even if Lucien still had a working team back at Cheydinhal.

--S--

The answer came to me as I sat in the Bravil tavern, the _Lonely Suitor Lodge. _It had nothing to do with what was going on around me—it had everything to do with a memory that swam to the surface like a little tadpole, about taverns and paying attention to things other than what you should be.

_I thought I told you to watch the door._

_I was. This lot was blocking it_.

I smiled. Not that Lucien knows this particular story got bandied about, but it does give me an idea. I wonder if Uvani's the sort to get easily distracted when a pretty girl shows up…and it would go a long way in trying to get him to the point where I can slip him the nasty little cocktail in my sleeve. I suppose if worst comes to worst, I could simply come up and shoot him from behind…but if I only wound him…

Whoo. I don't want to think about it. It'll make what I did to J'Ghasta look like a lesson in 'what not to do'. Still, it'll take some magicka to make me look like someone else…we'll just have to see what kind of girl he goes for.

I dunno, though…it might be easy, but it leaves a very bad, very nasty taste in my mouth. Thank goodness for charm spells. I have the distinctly unpleasant feeling I'll need them.

--S--

I hit gold.

I disguised myself as a curvy Dunmer with red hair, instead of my usually Imperial skinny-assassin self, and noticed Uvani's eyes follow me the instant I walked in. Of course, he wasn't the only one, and I felt distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention I was getting. Unfortunately, this was not the time to act shy, so I mothballed my discomfort and flirted and joked while working my slutty-looking self over to where Uvani sat. I can't _believe_ I'm wearing this getup—it makes me feel so…exposed.

He'd been sipping on ale for the better part of an hour. He's pacing himself, and watching me like a hungry fox eyes a rabbit.

I, on the other hand, gave every impression of getting close to having had one too many. Though this was not the case. I try not to drink when I'm on the job—not to excess, or impairment, anyway. "Mind if I sit down?" I asked, motioning to the chair, once I'd worked my way back.

"Not at all," he smiled at me.

I smiled coyly back and sat down. I looked up. "I'm Ralsa." It's a fairly common Dunmeri name, and won't arouse too much suspicion.

"Lovely to meet you." Uvani's eyes twinkled.

Does that move even _work_? Ugh. I can't believe I'm doing this.

Uvani's foot found mine, as if on accident. I pretended not to notice, until I felt his foot press on the top of my slipper. Flicking my eyes at him, I half-smiled. "May I offer you a drink?" he asked suavely.

I smiled at him—no, no, no, allow _me_. "I'll get it." I got to my feet, and wandered towards the bar.

It was not hard to empty the contents of the vial in my sleeve surreptitiously into Uvani's drink. I was confident he wouldn't be worrying about an assassin. He wasn't looking for risks to life and limb—he was looking for a good time.

Sorry to disappoint.

No, no I'm not, actually.

I sat down beside him on the bench, and we made small-talk. Despite pretending to sip at my drink, Uvani wasn't drinking at all. I began to worry, as I feigned the first stage of intoxication. I almost missed what Uvani actually said—but there was no mistaking his tone. "Well, I'd need a few more drinks before I even _consider_ that," I said coyly and sipped at my drink, smiling into it. "But…" I let the sentence hang and giggled into my cup. Come on—drink up already. Now I have a real and valid reason to hate this approach to getting close to a target. It's uncomfortable, it's demeaning, and it's getting me absolutely _nowhere._

Uvani chuckled and found my hand under the table. The forced smile became more natural as he beamed at me, and then tipped his flagon and took a great draught from it. _Finally_.

I got to my feet, leaving my glass and looked down at him. "Perhaps we should talk it over…oh, are you all right?" The question was loud enough to attract the attention of the other patrons, rippling through them as they realized there was a problem.

Uvani had gone ashen, the Dunmer equivalent of blanching, then he changed from glossy ebony to a sickly gray-purple as blood rushed into his face, eyes bulging. The poisons in the tankard weren't meant to be gentle, and for good measure I knocked into the table, hard enough to send everything on it spilling—a moment of pretend clumsiness. It wouldn't do, after all, to let anyone get too good of a look into the contents of that mug.

Uvani began to convulse and fell backward. I shouted again and pushed the table clumsily to move it, dropping to my knees by his side, then fluttered for a moment with indecision, before calling what _looked_ like a restoration spell.

Within moments the real nastiness was hidden in a good show of trying to 'help save' Uvani. Unseen and insidious, however, was the spell actually in my hand as I held him down while the inn keeper tried ineffectively to save him. I babbled about restoration not being my forte, that it wasn't working…

The spell worked just fine, strong and subtle. Uvani's eyes flickered to mine and his expression—contorted by his bizarre allergy—took on shades of horrified realization. Realization that he had just been poisoned.

I increased the strength of the spell draining his life and within seconds—too little too late—he was gone before he could say anything. "He…" the innkeeper swallowed.

I jerked my hands back and covered my mouth theatrically. Thank goodness this is over. Fetching Dunmer…

The phrase stirred something in the back of my mind….

"No…he can't…I…" I babbled. Fetching Dunmer…who said it? Must've been Lucien. Yeah...I think so…hmm.

The innkeeper was the one who was _really _worried. I doubted a murder charge would stick to him—how was he to know, or how was I to know, the Dunmer was allergic to honey? Very embarrassing, but hardly criminal. The fact remained I hadn't given Uvani anything with honey in it—just ale.

And a spike of something home-made.


	61. Chapter 61

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty: The Coldest Sleep

--

It took nearly a day and a half for the Legion to decide it was some kind of allergy – though as to what they weren't sure, not being Dunmer themselves, and their contact with obscure Dunmeri issues negligible at best.

Sighing as I walked around inside, I didn't like that Varnado – the Redguard heavy-armor dealer – was beginning to wonder overmuch about what I did for a living that caused me to show up twice in as many weeks with ruined armor needing extensive repair or outright replacement. The damage Shaleez had inflicted on the cuirass and bracers did turn out great enough that I either had to repair it, or have it simply replaced.

"So, what do you do again?" Varnado asked casually.

"Oh, I do a bit of this and that," I shrugged, looking at a suit of glass armor that was – oddly enough – tinted more blue than green. "Thought about joining the Fighters' Guild, but frankly…" I shrugged. "Wasn't a good fit. I tend to get into trouble a little too readily." That's what I'm told, and after J'Ghasta and Shaleez I'm more inclined to believe there may be some validity there.

Varnado nodded with a 'hmph' and I walked over to where Maro was examining my cuirass. "These," he motioned, "are Argonian bite marks." He scowled at me, thoughtfully.

"Yeah – I had a bandit come at me," I lied readily. Well, more like the omission of a few key details – Shaleez _was _a bandit, by some definitions. "Didn't realize he'd bitten me though." I know Shaleez pounded me up a bit, but I did not realize she'd bitten me. Sure enough – an ugly u-shaped pattern of teeth showed.

"And look!" Maro pulled out a pair of tweezers and a moment later extracted…

"Oh, I'm going to have to get this dipped in bronze," I announced bemusedly, letting Maro drop the torn-out tooth into my hand. Unlike humans, and much like some large reptiles, Argonians will lose their teeth more readily than humans, and therefore, their teeth grow back more quickly. So to find one of Shaleez's teeth in my armor was not upsetting – she might not even have noticed losing it – she definitely won't be thinking too hard about it these days, either.

The little needle-like tooth looked so innocuous in my ungloved hand – hard to imagine one of these could cause so much trouble. Tucking it into my pocket, I fingered the damaged leather on the workbench. "Can you salvage it?"

"Oh certainly, if you've time to wait," Maro grunted, scowling at the jagged slashes where Shaleez's swords had cut into the armor but thankfully, not into me. "Must've been a hell of a fight."

"It was. How long to repair it?" I asked. They won't ask too many questions, as I'm more interested in how long it will take than how much it will cost. That's the very best kind of customer, apparently.

"Give me a week," Maro shook his head. "Can't get it done any faster than that – then it's got to go _back_ to the Arcane University's students for re-enchantment."

"You let the students re-enchant your stuff?" I asked, the pleasant smile sliding off my face, shock replacing it. This unwelcome, deeply disturbing piece of news made me glad I'd survived at all…if I'd known _that _I'd have enchanted it myself! At least that way I know the spells won't fizzle when I least expect them to! I trust my own skills!

"Well, they've got to learn, and it's not like their instructors don't check these things," Maro assured me, speaking much as a fond uncle would of a niece or nephew.

Fond nothing – I'll bet he pays a pittance to the University, then charges full-price for enchanted armor, making a killing on every piece or suit he sells! It's absolutely criminal. Ladies and gentlemen: the fleecing of Cyrodiil.

"What he's saying," Varnado interrupted. "is that he's being cheap."

I agree with Varndo – that _is _cheap. Also, it's potentially _lethal_.

An argument broke out between them and I whistled sharply. I don't have time for this sort of infighting – I've got work to do! "Oi! Let me just get a new cuirass then," I waved impatiently. How do they stay in business?

Oh wait, easy—they bicker and the patron either gets fed up and buys something new so they don't have to come back, or they forget what they were actually after and wind up with more junk than they need.

"I've got some lovely chainmail…"

"No – I prefer the leather. It doesn't chafe," I grunted and cast the ruined cuirass a dark look. Enchanted by rookies…that's gone and ruined my day. I'll have to see about reinforcing it, once I've got it.

A whole half-day of choosing a new cuirass and having it special-fitted did nothing to improve my temper. By the time I finally took a room at the Merchant's Inn, I was tired, fussy, and completely out of humor. Not even the fantastic supper and dessert dented my mood. Nor did a bath help.

I was, I decided while relaxing in the hot water, simply lonely. Yes, very easily, I could go downstairs and talk, flirt, pretend to laugh, but I would still be one assassin, all by herself. My heart ached painfully as I thought back to the family I had lost –and the one little fragment of it running around who knows where. I'd never make it to the next dead-drop before Lucien did, to catch him on his way off – I'm painfully behind already.

I wish I could take time, though, to sit and enjoy the company of a familiar face. Take solace in the company of a fellow…abandoning the thought I heaved a sigh and got out of the tub, quickly toweling off, ignoring the feel of the thick, soft fabric.

If Lucien doesn't come up with something soon, I'm going to track him down and insist I be allowed to help with this so-called investigation. I'm sick of feeling like the last sentient individual left in the Empire –surrounded by herds, droves, masses of _sheeple_.

--S--

In the gray light of pre-dawn I slipped out of the inn with all my gear, picked up my orders, found Shadowmere running loose outside the city, and put her bridle on. Opening the orders, I read as I rode, the air already warm, promising a fine day. Spring fades into summer and it's looking to be a hot one.

Maybe I'll just relocate to Bruma – the only problem is, I only know where the Anvil Sanctuary is – otherwise I'd gladly flop with the Family, instead of at an inn.

I didn't even pay attention to the handwriting this time, just carefully read while letting Shadowmere pick her way along the road.

He sounds in better spirits, at least.

The mark's name is Havilstein Hoar-Blood, a Nord, obviously, who proved himself some kind of butcher and the wife of said victim isn't happy. So 'not happy' she's forgoing the custom of monetary atonement, and will settle for Havilstein's death, while paying the money to us. See? This is why you shouldn't get falling-down drunk. You do stupid things and the next thing you know, someone's taken out a contract on you and someone like me comes through your door or window or whatever.

Neville's face and tone of voice swam through my thoughts like lazy fish, his view of Nords in general.

No, it's not just Nords - if you're going to drink to excess, there are going to be problems. End of story.

Now, when you're in the company of close or trusted friends…that's a little different. I can't imagine going on a rampage with, say, Teinaava or Gog…

Focus, Sari. Ignore the guilty twist in your stomach – it's just…life.

Next drop…the ruins of Nornal. Aylied ruins. Means skeletons at the least and crazy-ass adventurers at the worst. Not really an issue right now, but something I should keep in mind.

The problem is, I'm not really familiar with the mountainside campsite – or even that area of the region. Which means…I have to go back to Cheydinhal to consult the Map.

Damn.

--S--

_What is the color of night?_

"Sanguine, my brother," I answered monotonously, and slipped through the opening door.

There were no bodies. Bloody messes were like distant memory, merely faint discolorations on the stone. Unease stole over me, little scurrying sounds echoing in the corridors of my mind, coupled with staccato memories.

But someone had come back and reanimated Tag, Shuffles, and Smethwick, all three of whom bustled up to take my cloak. "I'm not here for long," I announced when I realized they did not meant to attack me. "Has Lucien been back at all?" Part of me wondered, disconnectedly, why there were no new Family members here.

With what they were willing to do to flush out a traitor, I don't trust the Hand not to try and finish Lucien and I off at first opportunity – to complete the purge. I really don't.

Shuffles signed that yes, Lucien had come back once. It must have been Lucien who reanimated the guardians. It's not particularly difficult –creating them from scratch is harder. Sweeping down the hall to the library, Shuffles followed in my wake.

The Map looked pristine as ever, and I stepped up onto the table below it and began searching for Gnoll Mountain.

There. It's actually right by the highest point in Cyrodiil – Cloudspire Peak - and is relatively near Bruma. Memorizing the point I stepped down off the table to find Smethwick holding a glass of wine for me.

"Thanks," sitting on the table and taking the wine I let it trickle down my throat, feeling oddly woozy. Like being homesick…and home at the same time. Finishing the wine I headed for the barracks, though I carried a brilliant magelight in one hand, as if warding away my own demons. Not that demons are necessarily afraid of light, it just makes _me_ feel better about fumbling around down here. I feel like a grave robber.

I blinked, the shadows playing funny tricks with my eyes.

My Crimson Scar armor still lay piled and folded in my footlocker, Crimson Eviscerator – feeling nasty as ever to the touch - at the bottom of the mess. I pulled the armor out and changed into it. It, at least, fit very comfortably, and I could feel the enchantments on it, like friendly pats on the back, or a warm hand on the shoulder.

As I changed, it struck me odd how nothing seemed to have changed since I was here last. Antoinetta's bed remained unmade, pillows everywhere. Smiling a little, I walked closer, buckling a bracer. Her scented pillow is gone. The one I made her, to help her nightmares. I knelt and looked under the bed – nope, nothing but dust. On the table?

That's odd…I could have sworn it was here the last time I was. Well, maybe Lucien…but it's such a girly thing…nightmare-discouraging or not.

I have to get out of here. It's messing with my head…messing with my sanity…i can almost hear every little sound that plagued me that night...the same sounds that rattle around in my nightmares...

I think I'm starting to lose my grip.

I found it when I walked back through – a disturbance of magicka that made me so dizzy, I almost fell over.

On the floor were faint marks, chalked down, but so expertly…someone who'd cleaned up the sanctuary after I got done with it. The magicka's too clean, to precise for Lucien. This is Arcane university-type precision…especially since I can't decide what the original spell was meant to do…the chalk is white…or was. It's not a summons. Restoration would be pointless and doesn't use chalked symbols. Mysticism sometimes does…

…but this is all academic. It doesn't _matter._ There's no one to hear the logic, the argument anyway.

--S--

Hoar-Blood's campsite was not hard to locate—just follow the smoke. For a man on the run, he's not particularly well-acquainted with the idea of 'hiding'. Unless, of course, he thinks no one will come out this far to look for him. In which case he's painfully mistaken.

The major concern is an animal – possibly a dog - with Hoar-Blood.

Lying on my belly, hidden among the rocks as high up above the campsite as I could get, I see more with detect-life than with my own eyes. Fortunately I'm downwind from the mutt – otherwise he'd bark, snarl or howl and generally draw attention to the fact that I – pretending to be a rock, with Shadowhunt lying at my side – am here at all.

Hoar-Blood was cooking supper over the fire, a meat-heavy diet, the dog or wolf or whatever lying nearby – apparently snapping at morsels tossed its way. I pulled an arrow and laid it near Shadowhunt. The gathering gloom will work in my favor, and I'm pleased to note that my Crimson Scars armor, apart from not being as recognizable as my shrouded armor, is fairly weatherproof. My toes don't even feel chilled yet. My ears are another story.

Yes, I'll wait until it gets darker – make the shots by sighting in on the life-forces, instead of by what I can actually see. I slid back behind the rock and pulled my weapons with me, poisoning three arrows, then a fourth for good measure. I don't know how many arrows it will take to bring the Nord and his pet down, so I'll prepare for worst-case scenario.

It's always worked well before.

I had to wait until true dark before I could make either shot – my hidden position put the sunset directly in my eyes, so I waited. I had to wait – the only other alternative was to put a lot to chance, something I'm unwilling to do, given my current record of fouls, miscalculations and jumping in without full understanding of the situation. Nope.

I can wait. Happily.

The sun finally dipped behind the rim of the world, letting grayed darkness creep forward. Wood-smoke and cooking meat touched my nostrils as I moved to take the first shot. Even if it doesn't kill Hoar-Blood right away, it will wound him, perhaps even to the point the second shot is more a _coup de grace_ than anything else.

I sighted in and began the proper breathing Tel taught me so long ago, and the let the first arrow fly.

The second killed the dog, caught between looking for the attacker and helping his master.

Both were dead by the time I walked up to the camp.

--Author's notes, appended--

Argonian Teeth: given that they are physiologically compared to lizards, I took a more crocodilian take. Crocodiles do lose their teeth and do grow them back, as often as teeth are lost. So unlike humans, limited to two sets of teeth for a lifetime, Argonians are a little better-prepared to hunt in the region of Black Marsh. Just like I gave Khajiiti retractable claws (a trait not usually found in the big cats, but certainly in housecats). I guess I'm a bit of a nut for anthropomorphic anthropologies.


	62. Chapter 62

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-One: A Kiss Before Dying

--

To say that I felt confident pulling two jobs in Bravil back to back would be a lie. To be honest, my nerves prickled and I felt oddly tense. The upside was my mark was apparently more interested in this girl of his than in some fetching Dunmer who drank himself to death—at least, that was the story being propagated.

For two nights I'd heard this fetching Bosmer whine and wheedle before the statue of the Lucky Old Lady—beating around the bush—preparing speeches to deliver to this girl who apparently wasn't talking to him.

I'll bet she doesn't know he _exists_, but that's just me.

I can see why she wouldn't want to—he looks like the Glarthir brand of crazy, totally gone, all it takes is one little event to tip him off the pier. I'll bet she's not talking to him because she's _scared_ of him…I'd be a little intimidated, but I know how to purge the fixated. I also know that not every girl is me—lucky for Tamriel, huh?

Enter Ungolim's real problem: this girl is married. And her husband apparently doesn't think that Ungolim's…fixation…with said girl is healthy. Apparently it's a quaint custom around here to ask the Lucky Old Lady for luck or blessings, a local superstition. Anvil used to have a wishing fountain a long time ago, but it was filled in with a large tree later.

Fortunately for us both, Ungolim shows up at the Lady's statue late at night while most everyone is asleep, and tonight was no exception. He was at it again, laying flowers at the feet of the statue. I selected an arrow. With my recent record of marksmanship, I felt more than justified, climbing up into a nice overlook and simply shooting him. In the back, no less, otherwise he'd see me.

Assassins don't have to play fair, remember?

"Will that be your only answer?" Ungolim entreated of the night air. "Silence, my lady? Have I not served you well? Have I not filled every wish and requirement you've set before me!?" He sounded mad. Insane. Almost…terrified. "My lady…" he half-raised his hands, helplessly, his words snatched from murmuring lips and carried back to my ears via a spell. "Oh my lady…" he bowed his head and tension vanished from his shoulders as he hunched forward, his hand knotted beneath his chin, the murmurs becoming whispers, as if in fervent prayer to one of the gods. He rocked slightly as he whispered, the spell not strong enough to bring the words clearly to me.

Well, I'm a lady, and I hear you. So let me put you out of your misery.

I drew back on the bowstring and sighted in, murmuring the signs for detect life. The wind kicked up and I thought, for a brief moment, I heard a human voice. I breathed…in…half-out…

ZZZZZZZ…_thunk_.

Beautiful. The shot flew true, the poisoned arrowhead hitting Ungolim off to one side of his spine, between his shoulder blades. He keeled forward and his life-light went out. I smiled and turned to leave, preparing the marks to draw a spell of chameleon around me.

All I saw was a hand swing out at me, out of the darkness.

It impacted across my face and I lost Shadowhunt as I hit the wall behind me, a little dazed and instinctively moving for Sufferthorn. The blow rattled my _teeth,_ then the next minute I was dangling like a fish on a line, caught by cloak and throat, another iron-gripped hand stopping me from freeing Sufferthorn. As soon as I realized I was trying to kick _Lucien_ into next week—for it was Lucien attached to the hand inexorably squeezing the breath out of my throat, I stopped struggling.

I even stopped fighting to loosen his grip on my throat, but could _not_, for the life of me, understand why he was so mad.

Mad doesn't quite cover it. He's livid. Furious, breathing hard, his eyes flashing in the darkness. It was like seeing a Daedra melt out of the dark, the war brown I'm used to seeing - even when cold and calculating – now truly shocked, the telltale blue of a nighteye spell rendering them inhuman...and wholly unfamiliar. Like seeing someone wearing a Lucien shaped mask...but behind the eyes...a complete stranger.

As I was slammed into the wall around which I had made the shot I knew if I didn't find out why he was angry with me, he was going to kill me. That thought was like a knife to the guts—what could I have done…?

He was so angry he looked _white_—I never saw this much emotion, positive, negative or otherwise, on Lucien's face, and it was past scary. My free hand tried ineffectually to disengage his fingers. "Lucien…can't breathe…" I gargled, my breath beginning to come short. It's like being caught in a vise…urk…

"I _know _you can't," he snarled, as I continued to try not to fight the grip upon my throat, and struggled to eke out the few breaths I could manage. "What madness has a hold on you, woman?" he snarled.

"I don't know what you…uhl…uhg…" I choked as his fingers tightened, my eyes starting to roll. I tried to appeal but couldn't breathe—I was going to choke to death…by the hands of someone I care about…oh _hell_.

I tried to gasp as I was slammed bodily into the wall again, but I couldn't. Dark clouds swirled at the edges of my vision, closing like curtains as Lucien ranted softly at me—softly so as not to attract the attention of the guards, who'd finally discovered Ungolim. "Lu…" I couldn't finish the word. Tears pricked my eyes, and not just 'eyes swimming from inability to breathe' tears.

Sweet Oblivion, he's going to kill me. I could see it as I managed to find his eyes, unable to breathe at all. He was hurt…thought I had hurt him…and he was going to hurt me back…but I don't know…what had I _done_…I wouldn't...

…would…would never…

…no…not you…never…

…ever…

My eyes closed—or my vision failed, I couldn't say which. Suddenly they fluttered back open as I somehow managed to draw a breath. Was he toying with me?

"Your first assignment, you carried that out, killed Celedaen. After that, you eliminated the Draconis family, as ordered. Then, betrayal!"

I yelled soundlessly as he bounced me off the wall, my head blossoming with white hot pain as he held me in his iron grip. _You're hurting me...__**why?!**_

"Your dead drops went unvisited, your targets ignored. Instead, you have been systematically slaughtering the members of the Black Hand!" he hissed and slammed me against the wall a third time.

I manage dot eke out an expression of pain, but rather than satisfy him that he'd slammed em around enough, it only seemed to make the situation worse. I stopped trying to breathe and simply gaped and then mouthed a stillborn gasp of pain as another shove sent me into the wall at an angle, ...I'm running out of energy, strength...I don't think I can do this much longer...but he said...he said that...

I've…been killing the Black Hand?

_Your soul speeds to the Void, little assassin._

_Fetching Dunmer…_

_Idiot Bosmer—won't listen to a _word _anyone else says…_

Ungolim's appeals to an unlistening implacable…oh shit…

"J'Ghasta, Shaleez, Alval Uvani, Havilstein Hoar-Blood -- Speakers and Silencers all. And Ungolim...you..." I knew there was a slur against me in the offing, but he didn't actually say it, for which I was glad, "…you have slain _the Listener himself_!" Lucien's eyes raked my face.

I must have passed out, because a moment later I was being slapped not so gently back to consciousness—which really hurt, considering the number he'd already done on my face. Damn…ow…

"You hit too hard…" I rasped, my eyes stinging with well-earned tears. How could i? How could_ you – _you're the one slamming me around like a rag doll...so why haven't I kicked you into next week...ever wonder about that?!False bravado...and I know it...hot tears slid down my cheeks, a disgusting sight if his expression was any indication to whatever was going on behind those stranger's eyes...I didn't care. This time...I deserve to be allowed to cry.

Because I...why would I ever betray the Family? I wouldn't...not knowingly...

A dry cough rattled out from my lungs, my throat aching terribly from his death-grip. He still held me against the wall, but this time he wasn't trying to strangle me. Instead he was giving me a cold, murderous look, his hand pressing flat against my collarbones, my neck cradled between thumb and forefinger, uncomfortable but no longer life-threatening. I reached up to massage my aching throat, and as my hand brushed across his he curled his lip with distaste. I ignored it, wondering if he was going to slap me around some more, hoping he wouldn't.

Hey…he's not wearing the black robes…just his shouldered armor…his eyes are picking out that I'm not wearing mine—it'll be a suit of armor he's not seen for some twelve years, if ever…

…not the point…_focus_…

"I swear to you…" I managed to articulate, grateful he hadn't crushed my windpipe. Lucien gave me a sort of expression that meant he wasn't sure yet whether I was faking or not. For a moment I thought I saw conflict—like he didn't want to believe I could commit such an act of betrayal. That he didn't want to see me hurt at his hands. It was gone in an instant, mothballed behind a look I knew very well—cold determination to do what must be done.

Even if it hurts.

"On the blade you gave me…back before I was your Silencer, before I was one of your assassins…I didn't _know_…" I was shaking hard by this time, my steel nerves shattered by lack of air, abuse, and frankly, the realization I had just fouled up so badly I might never make up for it.

Lucien gripped my chin and made me look at him, quite a feat for me to do considering I was hurting like crazy...and not just physically. I never thought _I_ would be on the other end of Lucien's fist, honestly. It probably hurt more to have someone I trust, someone I love, slap me around like some little bitch than if a stranger had done it.

…then again…the others never thought they'd be on the other end of my dagger, now, did they?

"No…" his expression clouded, but the anger faded as he moved back and released the pressure holding me to the wall. He gently fingered what I was sure was a bruise blooming across my face, carefully, hesitantly, as if he expected me to shy away, tell him to keep his hands to himself.

That _was_ my first impulse but…would I have reacted any differently, were our places reversed? It's not like he slaps me around on a normal basis…. "No…I see the truth looking back at me…" he sighed heavily and I felt the pain ebb as he cast a low-level healing spell, letting it flow through his fingers and into my battered body—the Lachance version of an apology. He'll never actually say he's sorry—he simply _does_, because actions speak louder than words. Even if the words are nice to hear sometimes.

The pain eased and I gave an exhalation of relief. There was still residual hurt behind my left eye, but not nearly as bad as before. As if to reinforce the apology for having treated me so roughly Lucien continued the low-level spells until my expression showed the pain was almost gone.

I wonder if he's familiar with the concept...kiss it and make it all better...?

"The surviving members of the Black Hand know you're innocent, they know you were only following orders," he pulled me to my feet and steadied me when I wobbled slightly, my head starting to throb. "They believe I am the traitor!"

"What?" My headache went into a back compartment of my mind. "They…they _can't_…" Gaping incredulously, regardless that this made our current position—one of his arms around my shoulders for balance, the other resting on my hip in case I overbalanced, a little awkward.

I ignored the flutter in my stomach as his fingers brushed across the leather there. Not the time, or the place.

Lucien sighed, which indicated this view was naive in the extreme, and I should really _think _before I open my mouth.

They damn well 'can' if they wanted to. That was one of the perks of being a member of the Black Hand.

Reaching up, I put my hand over the hand on my shoulder to lend weight to my words. "I will find this traitor and I will _silence him_." I promised. "Shall I bring you a souvenir? Ear? Finger? Or how about his _heart_?" I asked bitterly.

"Bring me proof of his perfidy, and I shall be pleased," Lucien grunted. "You know who we're after—find a way to bring him down—but if you can bring him _in_¸ that would be better."

"Then proof you shall have. I don't suppose 'I'm sorry' quite covers this…debacle?" I offered.

"Still," Lucien shook his head and gave me a half-rueful 'what can you do' sort of look, "there is no historical precedent for what you've done. And not a scratch on you," he said, a little wistfully, then his mouth quirked. "I suppose I should have seen this coming."

I shrugged. "I thought I was under orders. And I always complete." He doesn't need to know about the Argonian teeth pulled out of my armor, or the Khajiiti claw marks that mar my hide.

"This time I'm counting on it. The traitor somehow switched your orders, and has been sending you to the wrong dead drops. You and I have _both_ been deceived, it seems." This last was plainly meant only as a thought for himself, but he sounded a little relieved. "And with the remains of the Black Hand hunting me night and day…" he shook his head. "We must prove to them who is behind this betrayal, and we haven't much time. The Black Hand want me dead…it is the only penalty for such treason as they believe me to have committed." His eyes swept the bruising that was no doubt creeping up my neck.

"Then it's a good thing I work well under pressure," I answered simply, raising a hand to try and cover the worst of it.

"Indeed. Here is what you must do: go now to your next dead drop, lie in wait, and confront whomever drops off the false contract," Lucien instructed urgently. "It will be best—you can track Bellamont from obscurity, until you find a solid lead. Once you have a solid lead, real proof, then come find me. I'll be in hiding. Fort Farragut is no longer secure. It's under watch by the Black Hand's lackeys…" I could tell this was not a pleasant thought for him.

I can only imagine the kind of abuse they'll wreak on his home. And the dark guardians. Poor Evander…

"You can use…"

"No, no, that's inadvisable just now," Lucien shook his head, before I could finish. Then he gave a sort of half-smile, and I knew I was about to get a riddle. "Do you remember the first time we met?" he asked.

I nodded. I remember it very well. White blossoms and dark shadows.

"Of course you do. The scene of a previous contract, under their blossoms."

I frowned and looked into his face before it clicked.

Applewatch. I remember the apple blossoms…the smell so thick and cloying I thought I could walk on it…a sort of high not even skooma could give…

I nodded. "I understand. I'll meet you there when I can. Keep your head down." I pulled up my hood and looked for Shadowhunt. I can't get to it easily, without attracting attention—it'll just have to remain lost to me.

He gave me a smirk and vanished, leaving only a slight ripple of distortion.

"Take Shadowmere," I announced.

Lucien's disembodied voice gave a strained chuckle, and an invisible hand came to rest hesitantly on my shoulder, as though he wasn't sure he was still allowed to touch me so familiarly, after having tried to beat me senseless.

I reached up and patted his hand reassuringly. I probably would have done the same thing…and although it hurt…well, at least I know in normal circumstances it would _never_ have happened. I know it makes me sound stupid, but I would know. Lucien's not the type to slap people around for minor infractions, or no reason at all. Never. Not to Family, anyway.

"Sarielle, you'll need her wings more than I. Time is very short."

I nodded and turned to pick a way down…

The world pitched, and for a moment I wasn't sure where I was, who I was, or _whether_ I was...white fog swirled and glittered for a few dizzying moments, before I managed to recollect my wits. I found myself lying on the ledge where Lucien had issued the new plan of action, quite alone. There wasn't even a wrinkle in the air to indicate Lucien was anywhere around.

I sat up, massaging my throat as I threw a strong chameleon spell over myself. I need to get to Anvil. That's where the next drop is…my home town, I only hope that gives me the edge I need…

The drop.

And here I thought his handwriting had been downhill because of strain…I am so _damn gullible_! That bastard, Bellamont, better run fast, because when I get a hold of him I'm going to beat him to a bloody pulp, leaving him just alive enough to confess before the Hand that my Speaker is innocent…

Well, actually…let me rephrase it—that my Speaker is no traitor.


	63. Chapter 63

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Two: Following a Lead

--

Shadowmere and I made record time getting to Anvil. No chances taken, not with Lucien being hunted by the Black Hand. Even I have to admit, the chances of him staying ahead of them for too long, if they're really serious about catching him, aren't good. So speed is key.

Shadowmere and I took the most direct route to Anvil, and so I was sitting on top of the false dead drop, totally invisible, when a Bosmer came sneaking up. He was untrained, unskilled and would have screamed had I not thrown a silence spell on him the instant he drew breath. I shoved him against the wall, hand to his throat, where he shook like a leaf. He could have forced me back, but he was sufficiently terrified that I was there, waiting for him, he never attempted to struggle, never thought that he could win, if he tried. Smart boy.

"If you scream, I'll give you a reason to," I hissed, pulling a chameleon spell over us both. The drop was sufficiently hidden, nowhere near the local Sanctuary, but I didn't want to take chances. Too much was riding on me proving my worth as an investigator. "I'll start with your fingers, and move down, do you get me?"

The Bosmer nodded and I lifted the spell. "Who…what…"

"I'll ask the questions. You answer them—do you understand?"

He nodded, still shaking.

I reached into his coat and found, in an inner pocket, a small bag of gold and a sealed envelope with Lucien's seal on it, written in the same bad handwriting. "Tell me about this," I held up the paper and eased off the mer's throat.

How easy would it be to slip into Farragut and just use the seal on all the orders? Betting all the while I would complete them successfully...and if not, no skin off his nose…the little bastard. I've never felt so used…so manipulated. At least when Lucien does it…it doesn't make me feel contaminated. Dirty.

Add another couple of lines to Bellamont's tab. My, but it does seem to be piling up now.

"I'm... I'm sorry!" the mer panted, gripping my wrist much as I had gripped Lucien's, though without the conviction he could somehow dislodge the gloved grasp. "I didn't mean to do anything wrong, you have to believe me!"

"Have I?" I asked dangerously. He has to be scared enough to talk, too scared to lie.

"It was the robed man, I swear! He...he paid me to put those things in the barrel! See? This was to go _in _the barrel…for you!" He reached slowly and jingled the bag on his hip.

"Do I look like I care?" I asked quietly. "Now—who is this…robed man?" I asked, though I already knew.

A complete psychopath butchers an entire crew—a gush of insanity…and he'd been _here_, right under my nose…I hope I catch him at home.

"I don't know his name! And his face…his face was in shadow. He called to me yesterday as I walked by the lighthouse. I think he lives there!" the mer trembled, sweat running down his face, as if in the high heat of summer. "Or he did, anyway. He told me he was leaving Anvil. I'm sorry, but that's all I know!"

Damn. "The lighthouse…Ulfgar's?" There's only the one lighthouse, but Ulfgar is such a nasty person…well, there you have it, they ought to get along famously, Ulfgar and Bellamont.

"Yes! You…know it?" He shook his head, reminding himself he was not to ask questions, only to answer, and to volunteer _pertinent_ information. "It's just outside the city walls. I think the robed man has lived there for quite some time. In…in the cellar," the Bosmer swallowed hard. "I don't know what goes on down there, but there's a horrible smell coming from underneath that door. It's like…something died inside!"

Oh really? I never would have guessed. "Yes?"

"Listen, that's all I know, really! Maybe Ulfgar Fog-Eye can tell you more. He's the lighthouse keeper, and probably rented out the cellar. Talk...talk to Ulfgar. He's sure to have the key to the cellar. You know, if...if you want to get down there! Now please, let me go!"

My eyes rose from their unfocused, thoughtful gaze to find the mer's. I could see myself reflected in them, and his stream of inane chatter was getting under my skin. "Go?" I asked as if unfamiliar with the word.

I let him go and he skittered past me, dying a moment later, Sufferthorn punched through his ribs. He couldn't scream, he couldn't breathe—simply so much dead weight. "There you go," I dropped him and strode off. Ulfgar's lighthouse. Thank the Lady there's no traipsing around all over Cyrodiil…though…

My stomach knotted, my fingers and toes went cold. What if Bellamont…that would explain how he had someone's ear, how he could have put in good words to get me assigned to Phillida. What if Bellamont was a Silencer? How do they choose a Speaker, once one's been killed? Do they just...promote their…

…Lucien…

I broke into a jog, casting chameleon as I ran. The lights in the lighthouse were still on—it wasn't late, just dark. My heart sped up, pounding in my chest, as thoughts flew off in all directions.

If they find him, they'll kill him….

But not if I can get proof and get there first…I've got Shadowmere…

They will _kill_ him…and I'll be alone. No Family…it'll be like losing them all all over again…

Bellamont—think about Bellamont…

And run faster—_move_ your skinny assassin's ass, Sari!

--S--

Mindset narrowed into a sort of cold clarity, I pounded on Ulfgar's door and when he opened it, gasping about 'you're Mahina's girl', I pushed past him.

"Yes, and you're Ulfgar Fog-Eye." So named because of his one marled eye, not covered with a patch, as he's in his own home. "I want the key to the cellar. The cellar rented to the man in black," came the calm announcement, along with a pinning, empty, malevolent stare. He could feel the malice radiate from my very skin, like sweat. "Now, if you please." But the courtesy was only a string of words—filler words.

"Now why should I give you that, eh? Mahina's girl or no." Ulfgar asked.

"Because if you don't," came the response, in the coldest voice I'd ever used, all show of being a cheerful psychopath gone in face of the looming prospect of losing my Speaker, "I will simply kill you and take if from your corpse." I stepped forward. "You should be more afraid of the man who lives down there…can't you smell it?" I asked looked around. "The scent of rot. The reek of decay and death…" It's true, the longer I stand here the easier it is to detect, insidious at first, and growing, like the smell of feet after someone takes off shoes after a long day. It grows and grows until you can't ignore it, can't pretend to ignore it and squint watery-eyed wondering if said individual _pickles_ their feet before putting their shoes on.

Ulfgar paled. "You…you're..." his eyes swept me.

"That's right. We're the scary people," I held out a hand. "Key. Now."

"If you're here to kill that fellow in the cellar, then... good! I won't call the guards or nothing! He's doing...unnatural things down there!" Ulfgar shakily passed over the key and turned to run.

He didn't get far. He could identify me. He had to go. With any luck, this would be attributed to the madman I was tracking. The sweet, sweet irony. Finally—Bellamont gets blamed for a death he didn't contribute to, instead of someone else taking the fall for him.

Sweet sweet irony. Ulfgar hit the floor, his eyes staring shocked and glassy at the ceiling.

Oh, I'm mad…oh yes.

We all of us are, you know. Mad, but more than that, there's something _broken_ in us. Right now, my blood ran colder than ice, colder than revenge. This was something I couldn't put into words—madness of a frigid sort.

But this bastard was in a league of his own, and I was praying heartily I found him. Yes, I kill by poison, stealth, ambush and long-shots with a bow. But I don't need those spectacular trappings. Give me my Sufferthorn or the Blade of Woe and the coffin was closed. Nailed closed. Bellamont wouldn't…but he's not here. That useless Bosmer both said as much—or at least, implied.

Breathing hard, trying not to 'taste' the air as I abandoned the use of my nose, I cast nighteye and picked my way forward, coughing after a few paces. I dry heaved twice at the smell combined with the sight of a body, staring at me glassy eyed, decaying, stripped and mutilated. I moved closer, clenching my jaws and tightening my stomach muscles, trying to quell the nausea.

I strode down and unlocked the door, prepared for the smell of rot. I left the key in the lock and pushed the door open. I thought I was ready for the reek of death, the smell hit me full-force, something that you don't just 'prepare for'...something beyond the realm of bracing for...it took my breath away and nearly made me heave and retch out my guts. Ugh…

A woman. The body had once been a woman.

I immediately checked for ghosts—nothing. Not so much as a tremor. Poor girl…what did you suffer before you died? She'd once been blonde—the mop of shorn-ragged hair was pale in the nighteye, indicating fair hair. I immediately thought of Antoinetta…that's sick.

I turned, lest I heave up my last meal for real, before realizing why I was only dry-heaving. I hadn't eaten a last meal. I hadn't stopped, hadn't taken time. Oh well, maybe it's a good thing.

Two. Three…four bodies total—and a dog. Flies buzzed noisily, crawling all over the bodies, maggots manifesting in the older cadavers…and yet it was clear Bellamont really lived down here, surrounded by death and decay…

Four bodies…four fingers…I pulled the fake dead drop orders from under my bracer and opened them.

Arquen—the target's name was Arquen…the other three bodies were male.

Dead Speakers? Some kind of symbolism?

The one trussed up to the ceiling by his heels…and it was painfully obvious this one at least had been male…I looked away, my skin prickling. Ritualistic deaths, perhaps? Taken out on sheep because he couldn't have the wolves?

The back room of the cellar was almost normal, magelights flickering from small stones and crystals set amidst the ruin of a hundred candles. "Oh…" I could say nothing further.

On a lopsided, uneven table a white cloth. On the cloth, a plate…on the plate…a human head, eyes and mouth sewn shut with crude stitches and heavy black twine. Flowers lay before it, and candles all around—here at least was something Bellamont seemed to care for. Lying nearby, on a lower table, was a book, open as if abandoned in great haste.

I moved forward. The head would not be cause for concern under usual circumstances, but in this crypt of perversion and death it took on a very nasty aura…I don't think any team of the clergy could clean this place out in one go. It's permanently marred by evil…one beyond an assassin's evil of taking lives for money.

This was…sick. Twisted and perverted.

My nighteye spell gave out, showing the room in the white light of the magelights. Swallowing hard at the red ink…that is _not_ ink…and the familiar bad handwriting I flipped to the beginning of the journal…

--S--

_It's all right, mother. It's almost over. I'm close. So very close. How long have we struggled? How long have we waited? Too long, I know. But it's almost over. I promise._

_  
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim  
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim  
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim_

mommy mommy as you lie the dark man comes and makes you die my daddy's hands are red with guilt because he killed the life we built

I hate it! All this lying, all this pretending! Sithis and the Five Tenets be damned! How long do I have to live by their rules? How long before I get my chance? I saw Lucien Lachance yesterday. He was in the Sanctuary talking with Ocheeva. He was right there! So close I could have severed his spine in less than a heartbeat! Oh Mother, never before have I had to exercise such self-control. What's sickeningly ironic is that it was the Dark Brotherhood's discipline that allowed me to restrain myself. I've been a part of their "family" for so long it's a part of me, whether I like it or not. And in all that time I've fooled them all. They see me as a fellow member of the Brother, a trusted family member. Someday soon I will learn the truth about the Night Mother, and when I do, I will use that trust to get close to her. Close enough so that I may rend the head from her body, just as Lucien Lachance did to you so long ago!

Damn it, mother! Why did it have to be this way? Maria was so beautiful. She was perfect in so many ways. Why couldn't she handle the truth? Why couldn't she realize her "family" didn't really love her? She was a murderer like the rest of us. Paid to kill in the name of Sithis. I really thought we could be together. Make a real family, with real love. But she told me she could never accept your place in my life. So now she's gone. She didn't deserve to live after the horrible things she said about you. I never should have told her, I know. I'm so sorry. It will never happen again, and the others will never find her, don't worry. There's nothing left of her to find.

IliketolieinthegrassandwatchtheantsandwishIwereoneofthemintheirundergoundmazesosafefromthedarknessofpeoplehorriblepeople  
Iwillkillthemallkilltheantskillthepeoplekilleverything

Some wonderful news, mother! Advancement at last! Lucien Lachance paid a visit to the Sanctuary today, to talk with me! He told me the Black Hand needed my services. One of the other Speakers is looking to replace his assistant, who was killed fulfilling a contract. So Lucien Lachance suggested me! I met with the Speaker, and will serve as his new "Silencer." Ha! Lachance might as well have given me a contract to kill the Night Mother herself! I am now one step closer to realizing our dream. I will learn the Night Mother's identity and tear the heart from her chest. Oh yes, and I have something special planned for Lachance himself...

mommy I so afrade. i mis yu mommy. i just wantyu to kis me agenn

father prayed and guess who came the hooded man in Sithis' name who left but then he came once more to pass through window wall and door I lie in fear my mouth agape as wicked blade did cleave your nape for I was watching 'neath the bed to see the falling of your head and when your face lie on the floor our loving eyes did meet once more and so I pledged to you that day the Brotherhood would dearly pay and just as they took me from you I'd find and kill their mother too but there's someplace I need to start and that's with father's beating heart and when that's done I'll sing and dance to celebrate a dead LaChance

_I did it, mother! I killed them all! I killed them and I cursed them to wander their ship in undeath for all eternity! They came to talk to the old man in the lighthouse. When they saw me, they could have kept walking. But no. They laughed! They laughed at me, mother! They called me names! They said I was strange, that I was a human rat, living here in the cellar of the lighthouse. They did not know who they were dealing with! So I snuck on board, later that night, and I slit their throats. Every last one of them. So there the Serpent's Wake sits. The ghost ship of Anvil they'll call it now! Ha ha ha ha ha!_

_  
greenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreen  
blueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangeBLACKBLACKBLACKBLACKBLACK!!_

I've been careless! Too careless. The bodies, the burnings. Killing that fool Blanchard was the worst mistake I've made so far. I was seen! I was cloaked and hooded, and escaped into shadow, so no one learned my true identity. But now the Black Hand is suspicious. They suspect treachery, suspect a traitor! I must be more cautious than ever.

when in the snow I like to lie and fold my arms and wait to die

Failed again! How could I have failed? She was the one…the one that he trusts. I see her and I see his fingerprints all over her. She should have died…but some luck, some chance saved her…luck and Lachance…It should have hurt, should have cut, should have bled…they say she's the best…the very best. That she'll replace that fool, Elrick…but she's crafty and canny, just like her master. Ha ha…but she'll play her part…she'll play it and won't even know it…wont' even see it! Advance the pawn one square. Castle. the gambit pays off in the end. 

_Little puppet on a string, cannot stop a single thing…_

_  
I've been switching them! Switching the dead drops! It was so easy! I tracked Lachance from his lair at Fort Farragut to the first dead drop location. After Lachance placed the orders, when I was sure he was gone, I switched them! It was so easy. Now Lachance's fool Silencer is working for us, mother! Oh, the fun we'll have. One of the Black Hand told me they haven't seen such an ambitious family member since I first joined the Dark Brotherhood. I will use that very ambition to my own advantage. The fool will never question the dead drops, and as I write this is en route to the first target - one of the very members of the Black Hand! And so it begins. Lachance's silencer will kill one high ranking Brother member, then another, then another, and so on, until the entire family implodes. Eventually, as is the custom, the survivors will consult the Night Mother and seek her guidance. When that day comes, I will be there, ready to plunge a blade into that dark whore's fetid heart!_

!eid lliw ecnahcaL neicuL

--Author's notes appended--

I recognize that my addition (and changes) to Bellamont's journal are glaringly obvious. I am not much of a poet. I hope you will forgive this creative license, as I have Bellamont and the player character (Sarielle) being acquaintances, rather than blank spots in each other's worlds. The journalw as taken from the Construction Set, but can also be found at my main source of information: /wiki/Oblivion:Oblivion.


	64. Chapter 64

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Three: The Doomed and the Damned

--

Feeling drained out of my fingers as the book hit the ground. Immediately I stooped and grabbed it up, unslinging my travel satchel and shoving it in. No time, no time…they're already on their way…they already know…he knew about Applewatch.

I bagged the head as well.

If it's so important to _dear_ Mathieu, I'm going to use it. After all, it's the very least I can do to give it back to him. Such a thing should never be left lying around…

I'm going to break him, the way one assassin breaks another: _permanently_. I'm going to break him back to what most people would call normal. I want to _see_ his seething brain melt in his head, to leak out his ears like water from a bucket, at the fear and knowledge he was dealing with a Silencer, capital letter and all, who'd been subtly guided by one of the most brilliant, cunning minds in the Empire—and I mean that. Even if I had hated Lucien—and I don't—even then, you can't help but admire his intelligence, and cleverness.

And Vicente, who taught me how to admire subtlety.

And the Family…if Bellamont was angry about losing his…he should have imagined for a moment what would happen if his pawn, his puppet ever _found out_. I've been killing the Black Hand…and Bellamont? He's not…he's not even…

It made sense—suddenly…something Vicente told Lucien long ago...about going ahead and speaking with someone…they were arranging Bellamont's rise to Silencer…so someone else, a third someone…J'Ghasta. So J'Ghasta could keep an eye on him, only it didn't work…Bellamont warned J'Ghasta that Lucien had betrayed the Family and sent me after him…J'Ghasta might even have meant to leave me alive but badly wounded…turn me back over to my Speaker and they could sort this out together…only…it didn't work that way…

Oh Mathieu. You're so dead…but before you die…I'm going to break you in half…unless Lucien beats me to it. I'm going to break you…the way you've tried to break the family.

A small chill-thrill trembled in my belly. The only thing that came close to it were those few moments between the time my arrow had lined up with Phillida…and the moment I had broken the surface of the water, on my way to grab his finger and go.

And _that_ had been felt throughout the Brotherhood.

The night air was cool on my face, so sweet after the rank smell of death and decay. It's in my hair, it's in my clothes…damn. I ran through the silent streets of Anvil. Shadowmere will have to run us the whole way, as fast as she can, as hard as she can…as long as she can. I hope she's as much of a special horse as I've always suspected, or I'll never get to Applewatch in time...and we have to.

We just have to.

"Shadowmere!" I called once outside the gate, and whistled sharply, trying twice before I could get my mouth to form the sound.

Shadowmere came strolling up, chewing nightshade as was her custom. "No time for that! We have no time!" I barked and swung up onto her back. She pranced angrily beneath me, disliking the smell of death clinging to me like a sick embrace. My skin prickled into gooseflesh, cold when confronted with the balmy night air.

"We have need of haste—fly with all speed," I directed urgently as I turned her and gave her a firm kick to the sides. "They're going to kill Lucien if we don't hurr…"

I didn't finish the word. Shadowmere apparently understood 'kill Lucien' just fine and took off at a sprint.

I _thought_ I had seen her at a full gallop. I was wrong—so wrong.

The horse took off at a blistering pace that was like riding the wind itself. No longer did she 'seem' to turn to cloudy shadow at the edges. She outright did, and the landscape whipped past as she ran, following my directions, neither flagging, nor tiring, nor protesting.

Like a bloodhound with the scent in her nostrils, Shadowmere ran us across Cyrodiil. How long ago had Bellamont left? Not long enough for the magelights to go out. They dim of their own accord after a while. But still…is it enough of a head start to get to Applewatch ahead of me?

Like any wounded animal, the Hand won't be interested in the why of a thing—they'll want to strike out, to lash out at the first convenient target, and the cards are stacked, everything points to Lucien…the only man clever enough to pull something like this off…or so they think.

Vicente and Lucien were right. Mathieu Bellamont is crazy-brilliant, just like they said.

Shadowmere ran flat out, letting me take any shortcut I could, cutting cross-country instead of via the roads. Unlike some, my sense of direction is good, sound and reliable. I can shave off minutes, hours even…

This feat would founder a lesser beast,before we got even a quarter of the way, and like me, Shadowmere refused to slow, even when I tried to tug her to a more moderate pace out of concern for her, not wanting to do so, but not wanting her to falter.

Shadowmere shook her head and continued to gallop, dark swirls of cloudy-black ripping along her body like mist around her, her eyes gleaming decisively red, like an angry vampire's.

When I finally jumped down off her back, she was just beginning to foam, and all the while cloudy darkness billowed about her, rolling off her as if she were riding a storm instead of charging along the ground.

Something was wrong. I could tell the instant I saw the dark horses lined up outside the house—though none was in Shadowmere's class, they got here _first_…

I hit the ground awkwardly and reached for Sufferthorn as I tore up the lawn, past the trees, past the shadowy graves of the Draconis family…

Oh shit—I'm not even halfway to the damn door!.

A yell and a sound like a bang. The shockwave of massive magicka expelled hit me moments later, knocking me down roughly, my feet sliding out from under me, throwing me into the dusty grass. I managed to roll and regained my feet. I can't fall, I can't stop…it's not too late…it's not too late…

It can't be.

"Stop!" I shouted as I kicked the locked door open. Robed and hooded figures stood, turning sharply towards me, shocked at the interruption, knives already out and prepared to deface the body…

No, that can't be….

One raised both arms to forestall any acts of violence from me or to me. "No," cautioned a female voice. Arquen—the last remaining member of the Black Hand.

No…nonononono…the world slowed to a stop as the reality pierced my exhausted brain.

No. Please no…

But it was. And no amount of denial could change the fact Lucien Lachance lay in their midst, stone dead.

Sufferthorn fell from my grip, landing point-down with a dull 'thunk' in the wooden floor as I took several numb steps forward. This isn't right…this isn't true…it can't…I can't be….too late.

I took a shuddering breath that came out as something close to a gasp, as if my lungs had forgotten how to work.

No…no no no no…not you too…

I knelt—just dropped to my knees at his side in an ungainly collapse, and smoothed Lucien's hair back away from his bloodless face. His skin was still warm, but cooling. Seconds. I was only seconds too late. No more than a minute…if only I'd been faster…hadn't been so weak, so startled by the perversity of Bellamont's lair…I could have gotten here faster…

Biting my lip until it hurt, my stomach writhed as a high-pitched whine of pain escaped my lips. I hunched forward, bending double until my head rested against his chest, my arms wrapped securely about my torso. No heartbeat. No pulse of life…nothing but the shell…

So close…Shadowmere and I were so close…how do I tell her you're gone?

I kept waiting dazedly, waiting for the rise and fall of breath… waiting for this to be some kind of sick joke…but deep down, I know it's not. That's not the case. It couldn't be. Because smart assed as he was…as much as he liked to play with words and play puppet master…Lucien was not a cruel man. Not to us…not to the Family. And he would never play possum, knowing what it would do to me…knowing he was all I had left…

He'd never hurt me…

…more than he had done...

I almost didn't hear it…

… _I give you strength in the face of pain. I give you courage in the face of guilt. I give you a small measure of hope…as you face despair…_

So many words, so many empty words swimming around in my head…

The last of the Family...my Family…gone…dead… seeing him like this…was hard…so hard— pain blossomed, real physical pain, springing up beneath my breastbone, as if slashed by a cold-steel blade, once the reality sunk in. Truly sunk in.

I didn't cry. I wanted to, oh so very desperately. To scream and weep and wail and vent my grief so the world would know the pain and horror swarming in me like a cloud of angry bees. But breath and voice were choked, the painful tightening of my throat further prevented speech, and the sting in my eyes was like tiny blades, but no salt-tears came. It was as if I somehow lost the right to cry, like a human being, the price for killing my own Brothers and Sisters in the name of the Black Hand.

_Will allow you to carry on—always carry on._

_Get up. _

I straightened slightly, misery weighing me down like a sodden mantle, and I leaned over Lucien's face, tracing his death-cooling jaw, feeling skin and stubble, strong bones beneath my shaking hands. Not...this is wrong…it's not supposed to end this way…it's not supposed to _be_ this way…how could it? How could the powers that be do this…to the most faithful…the most loyal…?

Anger flashed, sharp through the pain, like a slap to the face, or a clap of thunder on a silent night, stark, staccato, snapping me out of misery and into…madness. Into a state of clear concentrated purpose.

Look at the fools standing there…my eyes slid over to them, I could feel the feral look on my face. There's no animal more dangerous than one wounded, and the blow to me was deep and painful...but not mortal. Or was it? Once this was over…what had I to live for? Or die for? Nothing. Everything I knew, everyone I loved had gone ahead of me already.

No…one more thing before I'm allowed to think like that.

There—the Traitor amongst them, shielded and protected from the fate that was supposed to be his…handing it off to everyone he could…ducking away from it…smirking at me in my misery, though the smirk fades as he begins to realize that…

I. Will. Kill. _You_.

He has to pay. And he will…if I could employ half the time and skill as Lucien did to that Morag Tong Dunmer…I will. Only I want Bellamont to scream. And let those screams pierce into the Void…and let the ones who have gone before me know the one who shed their blood…who forced the spilling of their lives out, like water from a vessel…suffers. And follows, screaming into the maw…

And Lucien…my poor Speaker…I didn't tell you…I should have kissed you, at least once…back at Farragut, after the Purification…should have shelved pride, and asked you to comfort me…

I bit my lip and straightened again, rocking slightly back and forth, forcing myself to look at the lifeless but oh-so-familiar features. It hurt. You just start thinking…here's someone who's practically immortal. I never thought they'd find him here. Never thought this could happen…

His last expression remained etched on his face, a blazing look of someone determined to die before being captured, who still saw some kind of light at the end of a long dark night.

He'd been waiting for me…certain I'd show up I time…but I didn't….

And I didn't blame him…he probably stalled as long as he could...gave me every opportunity to get my skinny ass here….and I failed.

I wouldn't want to fall into this lot's hands. I don't think they believe in easy death…particularly Bellamont…no, Bellamont would abuse the body…like he had so many others…

The body hung from the ceiling by his feet swam before my eyes, making them sting with tears. Was that what you had planned for my Speaker, Bellamont? That's not going to be allowed. Never. I won't let it.

The thought simultaneously heated and chilled my blood, so much so I promptly broke out in a fine sweat. If I hadn't realized now was not an opportune moment to go batshit on Bellamont, I would have.

And there would be nothing and no one that could save him. I'd strike down anyone who got in my way, be they Black Hand or summoned fiend. It wouldn't matter.

But Vicente and Lucien wouldn't want that, and the acidic anger bubbled softy in my stomach, subsiding slightly to a slow burn. No, they would wait, pick a time where Bellamont could be unmasked with less risk to self in the process. I was expecting a nasty fight, either way.

He had to know I knew…had to suspect at the very least Lucien would have dispatched me to find…what had he called it? Proof of perfidy…which I now had. And yet, my guts, my instincts were telling me wait…wait just a little longer to clear Lucien and the others.

Yes—it matters that much—my Family is gone…and it's an open wound, exacerbated by Lucien's death. It hurts like real, physical pain, making the scratches J'Ghasta had left in my side ache. Making the bruises and pulled muscles of fighting Shaleez twinge unmercifully in remembered hurt. Making my whole body shudder in pain, both real and remembered.

I closed my eyes, blocking out the world, trying to block out the headache forming behind the bridge of my nose, reaching into my cheekbones and behind my eyes like fingers of a hand…I'll stick to my orders...his last orders. And I'll bet Bellamont knows that.

In a whirl of memory, I remembered all the times Lucien made me so mad…or managed to alleviate some pain, or trouble I was having—or threw my argument out a window with as much effort as one might toss a pillow. Jovial banter that I realized I would miss more than I would have ever admitted. That I would miss his whole being, his whole presence…I felt like I had lost a part of myself.

Fool and folly...

I leaned forward again, more collectedly, unwrapping my arms from around my torso, and pressed a kiss to his brow, smoothing his hair back affectionately, but somehow felt _worse_ after having done so. For he was very dear to me…so very dear…I've never been in love, so I can't say if that's what this is…but it's a form of love. Nothing else could hurt so cruelly. I couldn't bring myself to kiss his cold lips—that would break whatever dam holding the tears and misery at bay. Because I should have done it while he was alive.

I'll never be the same. I'll be surprised if I ever find a laugh, or a smile...if I can speak to these…_scum _I am supposed to call 'superiors'. I hate them. I hate them all—but more than any, Bellamont. He's going to die. And I'm going to be the one who does it.

Now that I feel like a fool, I'm going to put that on Bellamont's tab—the bill he has to pay. The dues owed to the survivor.

"You owe him no loyalty, sister," Arquen said, in typical condescending Altmer sympathy. The bitch wouldn't know love, wouldn't know loyalty if it reared up and bit her in the face.

I snapped my head up and gave her a blazing look, slowly shifting my stance so I could get to my feet. I could kill them all…they killed their Brother, innocent of crimes committed against the Family…

Arquen saw it in my face, and stepped back uneasily, like a horse scenting danger on the wind.

A brand of madness in and of itself. But worrisome in its sanity. The single, driving purpose, after which the body could be shucked like a snake shucks its skin, without thought or care.

No. No, Sari, you have to wait. Kill Bellamont first. That's what matters. Remove the sickened branch of the Family tree, purge the mud slung on the names of the Cheydinhal branch of the Family…exonerate Lucien…faithful servant of Sithis and the Night Mother, may he rest in their good graces forever.

Still glowering at Arquen, I shouldered the body in a legionnaire's lift, grunting a little. Damn…what's he been eating? Or does he just work out too much…I choked on a silent sob—it was supposed to be funny…but it wasn't…for a guy who doesn't take the greatest care of himself…he's really in shape. He always did need a keeper…

I cast a feather spell and felt the burden ease a little, so that Lucien was more ungainly and cumbersome than heavy.

"He was my Speaker, whatever else he was," I answered in a level tone, surprising in its calm neutrality. It was low, raspy, betraying the tension in my vocal cords, but it was strong, and dared them to try and interfere. Promised a fight—_the _fight of their lives—if they chose to be fools and try to stop me doing what love and duty required. "And I will do my duty by him. That means I will be allowed to bury him somewhere safe…I won't have the body defiled or abused. Unless of course," I added delicately, letting grief slip through into my tone. "Someone here wants to argue with my prerogative?"

This was meant for Bellamont, and Bellamont alone. I shot him a green-eyed glare that—in a fair world—would have struck him down dead as a doornail.

"This traitorous scum…" Bellamont began, but stopped.

I found a new depth to 'looks that kill' and sank to it. "My Speaker is gone. I am going to see to his burial…" I said calmly. "Nowhere in the Tenants does it say we must defile the bodies of the fallen." I turned and left the house, feeling their cold eyes on me.

I felt sick, numb. I could have killed Bellamont, right here…but no, now's not the time.

Lucien would tell me it wasn't the time, if he could. I shivered slightly.

Patience. It's something I pride myself on. Patience and timing. Perfectionism. It's what makes me _good_ at what I do.


	65. Chapter 65

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Four: Almost Orphans

--

Finally returning from my grim duty, my eyes found Arquen. Too numb to feel unnerved by the apathy that filled me, like water in a vessel, my voice remained strong and empty. "Tell me. Did the Hand kill him…or did he kill himself?" My voice shook a little, but only a little. Disregarding exhaustion, hunger, thirst…everything…I suddenly felt all alone, exposed, in hostile waters.

I knew the answer…but I wanted to hear it. To know it was a choice, and not in some horrible way my fault. Yes, I'm too late, but better too late and have this be suicide than too late and be murder, Sithis forbid that one loyal member of the Family murder another…traitors like Bellamont are fair game.

"Lachance killed himself," Bellamont grunted.

"I see…" Good. It would be rather embarrassing to be killed by Bellamont—especially with what we know. And I know that Bellamont knows I know. No, better to take your own life than to fall into Bellamont's hands. I don't think he believes in easy death. I looked back to Arquen and stared her down. "What now?" My voice still rasped, and gave no evidence of tears. I still felt far beyond them, at this point, trapped in a cold and lonely place.

"'What now, indeed." Every word that fool Altmer said grated on the ears. I've met Altmer I like, and then there are the ones like Arquen, proud and condescending. It makes me want to rip her blind eyes out and let her flounder in real darkness for her serious misjudgment. If she keeps talking like she's my mother, like she's so much better…like she can say a few words and make the hurt go away…I'm going to show her what hurt _really _is_. _"Now, dear Silencer," I balked visibly, my face twitching in distaste as Arquen moved to touch my shoulder, a gesture she must think friendly.

Don't touch me. Never. It's not your place.

Banus Alor I recognized as he moved slightly. My eyes snapped to him. Don't make any sudden moves or this will get _very_ ugly. The realization dawned quickly what _my_ position might be—and that I might just get the fight I so desperately wanted. My hands slid slowly down, to find the hilt of my Blade of Woe—could anything be more fitting?—and Lucien's.

He had worn his Blade of Woe, I discovered it when I put him to rest. I could not believe he'd want it to lie in the cold dark ground. He may not intend for it to be a comfort to me…but unlike the others, I _need something_ of his. Not to remember—but as a comfort, something I can touch, can hold, even if it be only cold metal.

"Peace, Silencer," Arquen said, watching me prepare for a fight.

I'm Lucien Lachance's Silencer—and I'm the one who's been killing the Black Hand…my stomach burned as acidic anger bubbled sluggishly through it. Chances are fifty-fifty they have some punishment for me…but I'll be damned if they'll lay one finger on me. I've bested Banus once, I'll do it again, and anger is power, strength, when all other strength runs out.

"Have we offered you violence?" Arquen asked when I didn't return to a less aggressive stance.

"I am the rogue Silencer of a rogue Speaker—what should I expect?" I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm. Plainly I, at least, felt neither Lucien nor I had done anything out of line. We hadn't. At least I'm honest—I could have lied. But what's the point?

"Indeed—but Silencer no longer." Arquen held up a hand and I realized what was in it. Not a cloak that she had taken off and been carrying about, but a long black robe. I knew the cut and style of it very well. Arquen walked up to me, despite the fact I was bristling. "We are one Speaker short—and I am happy to grant you the position of Speaker, in That Traitor's stead..." Her eyes flickered to where Lucien had lain before.

"What?!" Bellamont's head snapped up. An unexpected turn, dear Mathieu?

I smiled at him, rather sadistically. Perfect.

Banus went 'tch' to Bellamont, speaking up for the first time. "I've been on the other end of her—it's not a place you want to be, Mathieu—don't go picking a fight with that one." Banus found my eyes. "She's just as dangerous as her master," No hint of gossip, or insinuations. Banus actually sounded as if he had let the gossip off as gossip since I'd rearranged his face. I noticed his nose looked a little more crooked than before.

Oh yes. Beautiful and dangerous. Like Nightshade. Like Shadowmere…like my poor Speaker.

Arquen stepped behind me and held the robes up, so I could shrug them on like a jacket. "We shall have to get your more fitting armor than that mess you've got…but not now."

Wordlessly, I unbuckled my weapon belts, and set them on the floor, pinned down by one foot as if they might try and crawl away if left to their own devices. I slipped the robes on, and then buttoned them down, buckling my weapon belts back over them. Lucien's was, despite being cinched as tightly as it would go, not meant to be worn by someone of my figure, and hung both low and at an angle, making it a little awkward to get to the knife blade…but not impossible to draw it. As if the blade itself knew here was a hand that served, and loved, its last master. And would see that it had rest in a place of esteem, such as I could not grant that master.

It was heavier than mine, and evidently meant to be comfortable for someone with a longer reach and more strength in the arm.

The world began to move faster once the belts were settled into place—I was surprised I was allowed what felt like so much time to pull myself together, and array my weapons…tools. Instruments. "Well." It was not a question, simply a prompt for life to continue.

"As you know, we the Black Hand are in a state of disarray. That Traitor Lachance," Arquen explained calmly, as Bellamont's mouth twitched with amusement, "ordered you to kill us off! We five, including you, are now all that remain."

"Surely the Sanctuaries are still intact?" I asked quietly. "Or are you trying to tell me, Speaker Arquen, the Traitor has killed more of us?"

Arquen's eye twitched slightly, and I smiled bitterly. Oh yes—we will never be friends, you and I—and I can't imagine Caridan being dead just now. "It is…a manner of speaking since the current mess of crises—both from Oblivion and our own turmoil—have weakened our stance."

"Then say not that we are the only ones left. Of Cheydinhal, _I_ am the only one left…oh, and Speaker Bellamont, of course," I added delicately. Take the hint. "But, let us not squabble—what now?" Not squabble indeed. It's obvious Arquen wants to argue with me, but to her credit—perhaps—she dropped the matter.

"Well, in your admirable haste to do the Night Mother's will…by obeying That Traitor's whims—you killed our Listener…" Arquen looked truly troubled, biting her lower lip.

How long has it been since a Listener was assassinated by one of his own flock? A long time, I should think…and 'long time' as defined by elves is close enough to 'never' for humans. Out of living memory, even for the most long-lived of us humans.

"The Black Hand without a Listener is like a hand with no thumb. Even the Listener's successor is dead… we have no choice but to invoke an ancient ritual. We must wake the Night Mother from her slumber, and seek her guidance!"

Ah—so that's Bellamont's game. I smiled thinly, a cold, feral smile that obviously unsettled Banus. His hand strayed nervously towards his own dagger, to rest against the hilt—not a threat, merely a nervous habit. "Sarielle?" he asked.

The sound of it was like a stone thrown down a long shaft into deep water. I smiled coldly, meeting his eyes unflinching, unblinking. "We should ride now," I declared to the room at large, "we should not keep our Lady waiting. If we take pause, then we'll wait in Bravil until nightfall. She will be pleased we came so quickly, and were discreet. But if we make her wait…she will be _displeased_. And we can't have that." I was not looking overtly at Bellamont.

"You have his horse. We can't keep up with the Shadowmere." Banus motioned to Bellamont, the unknown Speaker, Arquen, and himself.

Tough shit. "Then I shall reign her in, as best I can. Do try and keep up." I pulled my hood up and turned to Bellamont. "After you." There is no way I'm presenting my back to this little fetcher. I know your game, fool, and I'm going to beat you at it. I studied under two of the greatest minds in the Empire, and you…you're not even close.

--S--

I rode alongside Banus, checking Shadowmere's desire to sprint ahead. I did not, however, keep her from snapping irritably at the other horses, which meant Shadowmere had plenty of room, and I didn't have to talk much—but I did keep a very close eye on Bellamont. I seemed to unnerve him in a way I had not thought possible.

I don't like Banus, we got off on the wrong foot and stayed there…but there was something decidedly shifty in his manner. As if he knew whatever I was up to, it boded no good for someone…and he was praying he was not that someone.

During the ride, I learned the name of the unnamed Speaker—Belisarius Arius—but took in little else. The candle burns down, burns quicker at the end of its life than at the beginning. Soon, it'll all be over, and perhaps…I won't need to worry anymore.

_A small measure of hope…as you face despair._

--S--

I took to dozing on Shadowmere's back, unable to keep my eyes open anymore, letting her pick our way, jostling awake every few minutes as she tried to outstrip the other horses and Speakers. "Shadow-love please, I'm tired," I breathed so no one else would hear, and watched her ears twitch. At least, after this point she didn't try to gallop ahead anymore.

I locked myself in the room I took at the Lonely Suitor Lodge as soon as possible, not even discussing it with my fellow Speakers. Once safe, secure, and out of sight I broke down into tears. I had held them back, kept forcing them into some deep, forgotten part of the well of my soul, but they erupted here now there was no one to see the weakness.

I felt like my heart was mercilessly torn out, similar to when I'd performed the Purification.

I was wrong. At least then I'd had one member of the Family left…someone to let me cry on his shoulder…now I'm well and truly alone. The very last of the Cheydinhal sanctuary. The last sliver of hope the real traitor could be unmasked.

Vicente wouldn't mind me crying—he's lived long enough to know loss, to know that a woman sometimes needs to cry. And I feel I have more than enough provocation for it.

I swallowed, choked on bitter tears, then shoved my face into the blanket to muffle the noise.

I felt broken—if having my heart torn out was bad, it was worse to have it flung back in so I could _feel_ again. I had nightmares: I've only ever had nightmares about the Purification. Those were eclipsed now by a sense of helplessness so profound. The memory of picking Lucien's hair out of his face, his eyes unseeing, half-closed and glassy…

The recriminating question for every face I knew so well. W_hy_?

I curled up into a tight ball, fingernails digging into my hands. Someone is going to pay dearly. I'll make sure of it. And that someone is Mathieu Bellamont. It doesn't matter if he escapes me, tonight, when he finally breaks his cover…because like a guilty conscience for a normal person, I will _follow _him. I'll follow him and bring him to ground—I'll make him suffer, like I suffer, and then send his soul screaming into the blackest recess of the Void.

That's all there is to it.

I opened my eyes, my breathing ragged, cold anger settling in again, so heavy it forced the tears away. I rolled onto my back, swallowing hard, and folded my hands over my diaphragm. I could have been ready to be stuck in a pine box for burial, I felt so cold.

Assassin's don't normally get a coffin—we die on the job…at the hands of fellows…or put in a shallow grave somewhere.

There was a knock on the door. I closed my burning eyes and sighed softly. "Yes?" The word was stronger than I actually felt, but I made no move to open the door, or unlock it. Assassins are paranoid, and I wanted to be left alone.

"It's Banus."

I sighed again. Can't you see I want to be left to my own devices? "Enter." The lock clicked softly from the outside and Banus stepped in—it was odd. I could hear his footsteps—maybe I've just spent too much time around Vicente…no, I can't think like that just now. "What do you want, Speaker Alor?" I asked in cold monotone.

There was a soft clink and I felt Banus watching me. I probably looked very defenseless, and that alone would put him on edge.

I opened my eyes and flicked them over at him, never mind the fact they would still be red-rimmed. "What do you want?" I repeated, sitting up.

He reached over and tapped the tray he'd carried in and set on a small table: a tumbler, a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy, and a loaf of bread with knife and butter. "It'll take the edge off." Banus' eyes roved my face, as if he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

I stood up and noticed him take a half-step back, as if he thought I might attack him on a whim. "Thank you." But I had no intention of drinking it. No sooner had this thought flitted through my mind than I felt my stomach rumble and quake silently, demanding nutrition. Soon.

Shelf pride, Sari—you'll need to be in good shape for tonight. Tonight everything comes to a close…and you must be ready.

"We won't leave here until midnight," Banus announced softly.

"Very well," I answered. Midnight, noon, it matters little, so long as we _go._

"Sarielle, what's going on here?" Banus finally asked.

"We're going to see the Night Mother," I answered simply. "And she will tell us what's going on, I'm sure."

Banus sighed and withdrew with a mumbled pleasantry, relocking the door magically once it was closed.

I walked over and cut the bread and began to eat, mechanically. Part of me didn't want it, part of me demanded it.

--S--

Arquen came to fetch me, just before midnight, and we—the Speakers—followed her out into the night.

It made perfect sense, and I realized what flowers Ungolim had laid at the Lucky Old Lady's feet the instant Arquen set a small bunch there. Nightshade. Chameleon bespelled as we were, no one could see us, but I still felt my neck prickle, keeping half an eye on Bellamont, and one on Arquen.

Stepping back from the offered nightshade Arquen looked up, speaking softly, imploringly. "Unholy Matron, we of the Black Hand beseech you! Reveal yourself now, most magnificent Night Mother, so that we may seek your guidance!"

For a moment nothing happened—nothing that a normal person might notice. The breeze that moves the dank air of Bravil about, swirling its nightly shroud of fog slowly died, and the moons vanished beneath thin cloud cover, as if whatever happened next was not for light to see.

The statue suddenly warped, going from a...lovely lady, looking down at her…four children...

How did I miss that?

It doesn't matter right now, focus.

The statue warped, until it resembled something like a crooked woman in a long shroud, holding a sickle—though the details were a little vague. At the feet of the statue, a small trapdoor, and a long set of Ayleid white stone led down into darkness.

"Come," Arquen intoned softly and stooped to enter the stairwell.

Banus looked at me then shrugged, followed by Belisarius and then Bellamont. I want to keep that little bastard in front of me. If he's angry at anyone, be angry at the person who bought the contract.


	66. Chapter 66

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Five: Honor Thy Mother

--

The long narrow stair spiraled so far down it amazed me. How had it been built without anyone else noticing?

We walked single-file, all the room the stair would allow, one hand on the wall, where a patch of it ran smooth, evidence of file after file of visitors before now. To the other side of the stairs…nothing—just a long drop straight down.

Magelights lit every few steps, glittering off the crypt's walls, until we finally arrived in the hewn-out chamber. It looked like it was part of the actual bedrock beneath Bravil, gray instead of the lovely white of the stairs. On the far right sat a sarcophagus on a raised plinth, made of white Aylied stone, glittering and shining in the glow of a single massive magelight crystal embedded in the ceiling. Opposite a sort of altar, or low stone table, the skeletons of five children lay shrouded in black.

The origins of the Black Hand, no doubt.

Directly ahead, Arquen walked forward. Between sarcophagus and table was a low altar, carefully hewn stone, reminiscent of the alter at Deepscorn Hollow but different, yet sinister. The eyes of the lady holding her basin glittered oddly, as if she could actually see...and as my eyes slid around on the carved stone the eyes of the children, supporting their burden, glittered as well, pricks of light in the darkened sockets of their eyes.

I wore a look like that once, but without the lights...dark sockets of nothing in a human face...

Of open space there was, perhaps, enough room for all of us to spread out and stand without being crowded, but in reality, it's not much room, especially if, no _when _the fight breaks out. I surreptitiously looked over the fastenings on my shoulder bag, secretly eyeing Bellamont.

As Arquen lit the candles on the altar with a sweep of her hand, I watched his face degenerate from unremarkable mediocrity to the raving look of a maniac. No one else paid attention—they thought the traitor dead, their underbelly safe. That they were beyond vunerability…how wrong they are.

A witchy smell of fragrant incense wafted towards me, and I bit down the urge to sneeze. It smelled lovely, at first, but the longer I breathed it, the more sinister it became. An interesting trick of a perfumer.

"Dearest Night Mother! Most Unholy Maiden! Please, we beg your mercy in this, our time of need! The Black Hand seeks your guidance!" Arquen intoned and stepped back.

The magelight dimmed slowly, the smoke of the incense filling the crypt with wafting, dancing shapes. Oddly I felt my nerves steady, and when the smoke suddenly wreathed into the form of a woman I felt little surprise.

The Night Mother was lovely, a Dunmer in her equivalent to the human thirties, her frosty, smoky eyes found each face, her jaw set in an attitude of grim disapproval. "What is the meaning of this desecration? Who has disturbed my ancient slumber?"

I looked down towards her knees and inclined my head, half-hoping she would take no notice of me, half hoping she might say something. "Cut your theatrics, Arquen. I've no patience for them." The Night Mother's voice cut harsh in the wake of Arquen's plea.

"The traitor is dead, dear Mother," Arquen protested, bowing low as she spoke. "We come now to ask your blessing. Anoint one of us your Listener, so we may restore the Black Hand!"

I'll bet Arquen's sure she'll get it.

Bellamont shifted restlessly, and I reached slowly for Sufferthorn, feeling a spell for fire creep into my hand…then I changed it. Ice, I don't want to damage the crypt more than needs must. It would be rude.

"Ah, yes, I have been expecting you. The Listener now kneels by Sithis, as does his successor. There is a traitor amongst you." The Night Mother drifted slowly before us, her shape blurring at the hem of her robes. Black Hand robes, I realized, though she wore a cowl, much as we wear on our armor, the hood thrown back. Almost like a priestess, more than anything. "Yes…" she stopped and I knew she was looking at me. I pursed my lips and bowed my head a little deeper.

"Unholy Matron…?" Arquen prompted.

I flinched— I knew Arquen had just spoken out of turn. I looked at Bellamont, his expression set, his hand slipping almost unseen towards his knife. Oh no you don't…

"Foolish little girl!" the Night Mother snapped and in the time it took for me to blink she had crossed the open space to hover so close to Arquen a rime of frost should have formed on the Altmer's face. "Lucien Lachance was one of _mine_, girl. He serves Sithis to his dying breath. The Black Hand remains tainted by betrayal. Restoration is _impossible_. You," she slapped a hand through Arquen's face and the Altmer crumpled to the ground with a gasp, "have brought the traitor here!"

I glanced over at Bellamont and caught him looking at me—out of the corners of his eyes, the best he could manage. Now or never…

Several things happened at once.

The Night Mother swept back from Arquen just as Bellamont moved.

He sprang and killed Belisarius Arius before the other man even knew there was treachery afoot. I threw myself back and shouted the sign for a hail of icicles, which Bellamont ducked, darting behind Banus Alor.

Arquen yelled something about protecting the Night Mother, even as Banus tried to defend against Bellamont. I didn't see how Bellamont managed to kill Banus, all I know was a moment later Bellamont was at the far end of the crypt, Arquen and I on the other, standing like a pair of guards before the Night Mother.

Glancing back to her, she looked rather calm, and her expression clearly read, 'well, what are you waiting for?' as if things were playing out exactly as she expected.

Arquen moved forward, stopping when I stuck out an arm. What are you going to do, elf? I think you've done quite enough for one day. "No! Stay with her!" I snapped and edged forward, making sure the mer would listen before stepping too far from the Night Mother. Glowering at Bellamont, power welled up inside me and overflowed, like water from a fountain—this is it. The chance I've been waiting for, hoping for…the chance—not to make it all right—but to make it _better_.

I didn't trust Bellamont not to try and sidestep me. The way he looked at the Night Mother…I smiled at him, knowing it would grate.

"You're just like that bastard Speaker of yours..." he hissed.

Thank you. "Who's the bastard? The killer or the one who took out the contract?" I shot back, knowing it would incense him. "You've been blaming the wrong man for so many years…tch." I clicked my tongue. "You failed to kill me already—do you really think you'll get lucky this time?"

"I won't fail this time…" Bellamont growled and I heard the Night Mother laugh, a cold sound that clearly indicated this was her idea of entertainment. I smiled—might as well put on a good show. "You think your precious Speaker can reach from beyond the grave...through you?"

"Oh no," I answered, wise to his game. He wants to taunt, to upset me, to ruin my focus. The problem is, Bellamont…there's nothing left for you to say that can sting me. "This is one of the few times I take a life for my own reasons…my own pleasure." It will be a pleasure, the thrill running under the cold words proving it. This time, it's for my reasons, everything else falls secondary…or ties into my own reasons. "Lucien has nothing to do with it at this point…except that you took my Family away from me. And now, I'm going put you out of your misery."

"Your family's been destroyed! You've already lost!" Bellamont shouted. "Damn fanatic— _you lost_!"

"The hell I have!" I shouted back, watching sweat glisten on Bellamont's face. "You've lost—we've been a step ahead of you for ages! Lucien Lachance _arranged_ for you to be here, fool!" My voice echoed in the crypt, shaking dust from unseen crannies. "So your perfidy might be exposed like wine-sodden indiscretion!" I heard the Night Mother hiss approvingly. It was a scorching comment, to say the least.

He was mad—mad as a hatter, and that is truly an understatement.

"Enough! Enough of this! You will all suffer for the pain you have caused me! I will destroy your precious Night Mother, and the Dark Brotherhood will fall!" His voice squeaked and broke, strange lights in his eyes, his mouth moving rapidly, reciting passages, fevered rantings from his journal.

A seductive 'shhkt' as the Blade of Woe, my Blade of woe, slipped free from her sheath, glittering cold in the magelight. cold as ice, cold as the ashes of my life. She vibrated slightly in my hand, as if she could sense the nearness of our Mother…and our Enemy, longing—as I did—to please the one and slay the other. "Except," I said slowly, my eyes focusing on the details of a face that I could hate. Oh so easily. The fact of the Traitor who had robbed me of my family, every last vestige of it.

He'd taken the others in the Purification. He'd taken my Speaker. All he could do now was take my life—and that was already pledged to someone else. "Except," I repeated, "you still have to kill me—the last of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary." I met Bellamont's gaze. "You don't have the stones for it—you couldn't kill Lucien and you certainly can't kill me. You've _tried_…remember?" I held up my left hand and saw Arquen move. "Fool! Stay with our Lady!" I barked and Arquen stopped.

The Night Mother chortled softly, a chilling sound that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Regardless of 'needing' protection, she'd have it, even if it was only Arquen. I'd formed a very poor opinion of the Altmer _very_ early on.

The Family had lost so much, we could not lose our matriarch as well. She was giving me this chance, this chance to prove myself, my skills, to prove my loyalty. If I can kill Bellamont…everything is forgiven.

If Bellamont dies…there's a chance for those who yet live.

Bellamont, however, was eying me like a predator eyes a deer. Like the wolf eyes the sheep.

The problem is…he's mistaken me for something other than what I am. Completely.

Smiling at him, I watched an angry or nervous tic start in his face, as we stood there, stone still, eying each other, planning the clash that might even be the last clash. He could probably _see _something like Lucien's ghost hovering by my shoulder, reaching out from beyond the grave, from beyond the supposed finality of death for this last strike.

_I give you strength in the face of pain. I give you courage in the face of guilt. I give you a small measure of hope…as you face despair. _

I did not close my eyes but felt strength and courage flow from the words, from haze and white mist to steady my hands and steel my nerves. "Always carry on." The words aren't mine….and yet they are, because they belong to me—were given to me.

"It matters not…" Bellamont snarled and flicked something at me, from the hand that surreptitiously vanished into his sleeve.

I moved faster and blocked his way, at the same time deflecting the dart away with my magically shielded forearm. "You're grasping at straws Bellamont. A trick I've seen once before won't kill me," I snarled, cold fury flaring in my belly. It had subsided, in the shock of seeing the Night Mother in the flesh…so to speak…but it reasserted itself now. I shifted my satchel—there's no way he _won't_ freak out if I use the contents…but should I do it now...? Or wait…

"Too slow!" But too fast for me to kill him properly. We exchanged a flurry of attempts to end each other, knives grinding against one another, though my Blade of Woe was certainly the tougher weapon. We danced back, Arquen still standing at the ready, I once more with my back to the Night Mother, Bellamont's attempts to get past me foiled.

Blood pounded in my ears, pounded in all the points where pulse could be found by another person, rocking my usually steady hands.

"You know—before you blame a Speaker for doing his job…you ought to find out who took out the contract. Was mommy playing around on daddy?" I jeered, laughing a little crazily myself.

Bellamont's attention and his temper both focused on me, a problem he could do something about. A fly he could squish, an irritant he could purge…or so he thinks.

He lunged at me and I danced away.

"Or was _daddy_ screwing around, and wanted mommy dearest out of the way?" I laughed at the next attack, a cold sound that was unlike me.

So this is what Lucien and Vicente felt like all the time. You're six steps ahead, and you know exactly how your quarry is going to react. It's intoxicating, distracting—except there is no distraction—everything ties into the here and now. It's so clear…

Catching the next blow I managed to slip the satchel off my shoulder, to dangle from the crook of my elbow, my free hand holding Bellamont's knife-wrist. Now or never. Now or never…

"He sent me to hell!" Bellamont snarled, trying to force his dagger towards me.

"Then maybe you ought to have stepped up to the plate and _stopped_ him! Intead of sniveling and cowering like the _worm _you are!" Never mind that Bellamont had been young. You don't stop the truly determined—the Brotherhood proves that every single day of the week.

Bellamont tried to throw a spell at me, but it was badly wove, and shattered halfway between us, dancing off my shield like so much slung mud, just about as dangerous. I laughed again, a high-pitched cackle of fiendish delight and unfathomable pain. "Mommy, mommy as you lie, the dark man comes and makes you die, my daddy's hands are red with guilt because he killed the life we built," I sang, the same rhyme, the same tone as a child uses to play skip rope with friends.

"Shut up!" Bellamont screamed and threw his weapon at me.

The Blade of Woe shed sparks as I raised her up to deflect the weapon.

Bellamont's knife spun and slammed into the wall, rebounding as I moved forward to meet him. We met and he tried to punch, to grab, but I was faster— I had a weapon and he had to watch her, because I wouldn't hesitate to use her, to send him to join his precious first-family. I struck his forehead with the heel of my hand once I could do so, sending him toppling back.

Reaching into the satchel, groping a moment with my free hand I yanked out…

…his mother's head.

Arquen shrieked in shock, and I heard the Night Mother admonish her to be silent. I held the head up by the hair and watched the color drain from Bellamont's face as he mouthed wordlessly. "Missing something?" I asked, and swung the head slightly, left and right, watching Bellamont move as if to dart either way to catch it. "Do you want this?" I teased, chest heaving from exertion, taking great pleasure in the bloodless countenance before me. I almost had him…

Ashes ashes we all fall down dead…

"Maybe I ought to give it back..." I dropped the head and kicked it savagely to Bellamont, who dove after it.

The distraction was all I needed. He landed and caught the head just as I pounced and drove the Blade of Woe into his ribcage, and then ran the strongest shock spell I had through the metal of the blade into Bellamont's side. He screamed as his body arched, the spell wrapping around the Blade of Woe as I darted back, pulling the signs for rapid succession of icicles and fireballs. The fireballs melted the ice with a hiss, sending thick white fog into the air, to hover around our knees.

I spoke the signs for detect life and watched. Three. Two. One…

Nothing. It's over…it doesn't feel over…I walked over to the body, carefully, not trusting the spell—somehow it could still be wrong. Bellamont's charred and abused corpse was blackened thoroughly, and when I nudged it with my foot it collapsed into a shadow of dust.

I lurched feeling dizzy-sick, overstretched, and hit the ground, my hands scraping against the stone of the floor, pain keeping me from passing out completely. "And that's what we do to traitors," I panted at the ashen remains.

"So, that's what you do to traitors, is it?" the Night Mother's voice asked, still a little rough and scratchy, but no longer disapproving.

I nodded slowly, then faster, feeling my eyes sting. I reached into the satchel and set the now-useless diary on the floor. I don't want it...because it's over, it's really over… "Yes ma'am," I answered softly, unable to think past the fact Mathieu Bellamont was dead. And I was truly the last of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

"You…" the Night mother snarled at Arquen, "if only you had half Lucien's intelligence and half this young one's strength, you might have rooted Bellamont out earlier and saved us all a lot of trouble. What do you say, child?" The Night Mother returned her attention to me.

I didn't look up from where I knelt, feeling dizzy, and…sad. It's the closest word I have for the cold pain welling up inside, not that it diminished the fire of anger in my heart. A sort of cold...icy quenching of the last embers of strength, of will to live. There was no reason to carry on: Bellamont was dead...and I? I was alone. No Family...nothing. "Lucien Lachance is one of the cleverest men I know," I said softly, ignoring the wrong tense of the sentence. Was, is, who cares? The point is moot...swallowing hard I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of the world and everything in it pressing down on my shoulders.

"You speak the right of it…turn round, I want a look at you."

I stood up and turned, obediently, still looking at the floor. "Look at me."

I obeyed mutely, and found her misty eyes. She pointed one thin finger at me, tipped with a ghostly long nail. "You are holding out on me," but she smiled when she said it. "He never was much for finesse…_" _

There's no air…there's no air in here…I can't breathe…

"_Remember_."

Wait…what…?


	67. Chapter 67

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Six

--

My fingers found the ribbon laces of my bodice as my hands folded before me.

"Vicente has developed an eye for clothing," Lucien said. It was painfully obvious we were trying to make small talk to avoid whatever unpleasantness loomed ahead, but the attempts were failing.

"Sarielle…" Lucien turned to face me, looking like he was trying to find the best way to tell me what was happening, when he stopped and blinked, his eyes flickering back and forth before settling on me again.

"What?" I blinked back at him.

Lucien looked as though he couldn't quite place something, and that made sense a moment later.

"It might be my perfume," I said quietly, and held up my wrist. Assassins are notoriously aware of smells—particularly perfume or cologne, because it's not a natural scent. This bottle is actually pretty good. It's a relic of my teenage years, but has always smelled good on me—at least, I think so…and so I've been told, a long time ago. Either way it's not a smell Lucien would know to associate with me in the first place, like how I associate him with sandalwood.

Lucien took the offered wrist and nudged my sleeve back a bit to smell the skin. "What is it?" he asked, not looking at me, but taking in the scent, one deep lungful at a time.

I smiled a little. "Cherry blossom." It's common in Anvil, being a port town, but not every girl can wear it. Because perfume is and has always been reliant on the person wearing it. It can smell intoxicatingly fantastic on one person and be downright repulsive on another—of course, the amount of perfume being worn factors in too. The only perfume not like that is Telvanni bugmusk, and you can _still_ have too much of it. But that's kind of obvious to people who know what it is.

And _I_ like this stuff better. And as I'm the one who's wearing it…

This was when I became _very_ aware Lucien still had my wrist and was still calmly taking in the smell of the perfume.

I smiled a little more. I think he likes it… Looks like an ex wasn't lying to me after all…

Too bad as an assassin, I can't wear perfume all the time. That's one of the tradeoffs—you get to live the life adventurous, but you have to put aside some girly habits.

"Do you like it?" I asked softly, without teasing.

He nodded slowly. "It suits you. You might not already know this about assassins," Lucien declared quietly, "but sometimes...you come to a point in your career where all you can smell is blood." Oh gross. "It gets in your nose, into your head—it's unnerving, if you're not forewarned." Lucien actually looked a little uncomfortable here, and I don't blame him. "Vicente says it's a form of conscience, keeps us from going wholly psychotic—I suppose he would know," Lucien shrugged. "And then one day, something breaks up the smell of blood in your nose…and it starts to fade."

Like my perfume? "How long…does it last?" came a nervous inquiry. That sounds really gross.

Lucien shrugged dispassionately—he at least looks like he's accepted it as a fact of life and moved on. "This time? Eight months. So I suppose this is where a normal individual would thank you." He released my wrist, as if coming out of something like a daze, and he was back to business as usual.

"Not at all, I'm happy to do it…so much as I did." Shrugging, I flexed my shoulders to limber up. "So—why am I here? There's a kickass party, and Antoinetta's going to go berserk if I miss it…what is it? I said you _should_ come with…" His expression had gone pained, as if he expected me to knock him out and drag him there…I could, you know…hmmm…could be interesting.

"You're going to have to scrub it off soon…" Lucien gave me a hard look, as if divining my inner strength. I've always held the opinion that inner strength cannot be measured until its thrown in the shit—sink or swim.

And fortunately, I grew up swimming. I don't think Lucien found what he was looking for. "Sarielle, I need you to start preparing for a…for a very nasty eventuality." Lucien looked away, off to one side, his mouth pursed in deep thought, his eyebrows furrowed.

There's been trouble…

"Nasty my ass…" I cut in, dropping some of the happy partygoer attitude in favor of something more businesslike, more appropriate to the situation. Lucien glanced up as if I had just reacted as he expected me to—make a joke and propose to kick a few asses. So I love my job. It's important. "Nasty doesn't cause you to make that face—you _only_ make that face when the shit's about to hit the ceiling. Whose ass do I need to kick?" The grin I gave him lent some seriousness to the words. Even if they sounded lighthearted, they couldn't get more serious.

"Trouble," Lucien confirmed. "Be serious." Though this was not really a correction, more like a polite reminder we wouldn't have this conversation if things weren't getting really…well _nasty_, to borrow his word.

My heart stopped, plummeting towards my feet, shattering on the floor as I stopped tugging my sleeve back into place. "It's it..."

He nodded, though in a way that meant it was only 'sort of' what I thought.

"Bellamont…what's he done now? How bad…what do I need to do?" It was hard, peering up at Lucien, feeling caught between wanting to strangle Bellamont, and wanting to string him up like a…like a side of meat, and beat him without mercy—we'll take turns—invent a new sport.

Swallowing and setting my jaw, I felt like a crystal glass that's been struck—resonating. I looked up at Lucien, cold anger in my eyes, all whimsy and joy of life gone. It's back to business, back to basics. "This has to stop," came the near-snarl, as I pinned Lucien with a glare. He's not telling me something, that much is obvious…though whether it's because he won't or can't or just can't find the words, I don't know.

"It does," he agreed. "And it is more…the Hand's position than Bellamont himself."

"Do you have a plan?" He's got to…or at least a glimmering of one. A plan rabbit, maybe? Plan mouse, even! A little skittering idea?

"No," Lucien motioned me to follow, and we took up seats near the fireplace. Flame flickered and glowed there, a magical fire that gave forth no heat, only light. Lucien stared into it, as if looking for answers, the dancing light sending the chiseled angles of his face into and out of shadow, giving his eyes an amber quality.

I looked into the dancing flames—unlike real fire, this did not make my eyes water, so I could just stare thoughtfully into it. A few moments later Lucien spoke again.

"I suppose it's time I give you some insight into Family politics—particularly as you are getting drawn in, and it would be…unwise to let you flounder about. You are not to repeat back what I'm telling you," Lucien glanced over at me, neither threatening, nor angry, simply stating a fact, an order.

I held up my hand. "You have my silence."

Lucien smiled inexplicably. "Yes…perhaps more than you know…"

"I don't like that smile, boss-man." Only half-teasing here—this isn't the place for real teasing. "Is something seething around upstairs?" I knocked my knuckles gently against my temple.

Lucien smirked a little more broadly, but it faded far too quickly. "I was in council with my fellow Black Hand members the other day. They are beginning to bandy words that are highly…disturbing." He pressed his fingertips together and looked back into the fire. I watched him, but more accurately his fingers, positioned like a steeple on a chapel.

He's begun to bite his nails—he must be really wracking his brilliant brain. I didn't think he was a member of the local nail-biter's lodge.

"Like what?" Time to cut the crap—this is really starting to sound serious.

"If I said 'conduct a Purification', what would you think I meant?" Lucien asked. "Just as a matter of curiosity."

Hmmm…let's think about this. Sounds pretty straight forward, and I seriously hope it's not what it sounds like…I'll bet it is, though. "Well, it sounds like one of the capital letter rituals…and from the look on your face, I'm guessing it has nothing to do with getting the dust and cobwebs the dark guardians keep missing out of the corners." Okay—back to crap. The guardians are fastidious, to say the least.

"Sarielle."

I looked up. "This is…bad…really bad?" Despite making it a question, my guts were beginning to squirm uncomfortably. No, bad is an understatement, I know. This is beyond fouled-up bad…the equivalent of Family apocalypse bad…

"A Purification is the systemic obliteration of all living things inside the confines of a Sanctuary. I do believe that qualifies as 'really bad,'" Lucien stated, looking back at me for a moment to gauge my reaction.

"You're not…you _are…_no…" I paused and gave him a thoughtful look. "No…_they_ are seriously considering this?" Lucien would never serve us up. He's too invested in the Sanctuary. Look at the twins, look at Antoinetta…and me.

Lucien nodded. "One of my fellow Speakers…thinks it is an acceptable solution at this point."

"Acceptable my ass," I retorted hotly, in classic fashion. That's no answer—it's an excuse! Asking for more problems in future and giving the survivors (if there are any) an 'oops, I'm sorry' pat on the back! "Why don't you ever name them? Or the Listener?" I asked, the tone not reflecting the inner turmoil.

"Convention. Because you don't need to know..." His mouth twitched. "And I suppose I hold to the off hope one of them will insult you, and I'll be able to claim you didn't know whose face you were rearranging." A smile twitched across his features—I can imagine that scene too. Imagine it: the Listener getting his ass kicked by some girl.

"Hmm…ignorance can be a good cover…" I agreed. "You know me—I love the family. Tell me who, boss. I'll come up with something," I offered. You know I would, too. Probably, it'll end up a brutal, bloody something, but there's a first time for everything.

Lucien laughed at this—and it was a real sound of amusement. I like his laugh—he should do it more often. "You and your sense of humor." But he sounded neither displeased, nor reprimanding. In fact, I'll take that as a compliment. "But, there are serious matters at hand."

"Yeah…and I suspect Bellamont had something to do with this? Whose ear is he whispering in? And how?" Okay, officially all serious. Pulling my half-braided hair over my shoulder I started to toy with the loose ends, spilling like ink along my red dress.

"Yes, but it's not Bellamont this time. This time it's…what we might call operational prudence…'your ass', I know," he held up a hand to forestall the 'operational prudence my ass' comment in the offing.

I snickered. "You're getting to know me a little too well, boss," I said in a half-amused singsong tone. Not that I'd mind, but as he said, this is serious. "Well what do we do?" I asked with a sigh, turning up no conclusions of my own, and suspecting Lucien has more information than I do.

For once, I was thoroughly disappointed.

"Unless we make everyone disappear? Not much…" Lucien said bitterly.

A thoughtful scowl crept across my fingers, like clouds over the sun—though I would never claim to rival the sun in any way, shape, or form—leaning on the arm of my chair, poking moodily at the armrests. That's not much of an answer, and absolutely no encouragement. Silence stretched out, broken only by a clock ticking rhythmically somewhere in the large vault that served Lucien as workroom, office, living room and probably dining room.

One of his dark guardians brought drinks and a plate of sandwiches, but neither Lucien nor I really ate—more like, we sat there as children do, mutilating our food in gloomy but thoughtful silence.

I sighed once my bread was a pile of little balls, rolled up and neatly stacked, leaving the filled part on the tray. Hn…haven't done that since I was a kid. "You know…" looking at the pyramid of bread balls, I fingered them and watched the structure give way, sending them skittering everywhere, "I do know of a place that might just be…good for that…for hiding people, I mean." I wiped my hands on a napkin rather than my dress—my first instinct, but this dress is expensive—then reached back and pulled my braid over one shoulder to toy with the ends again, tangling them in my fingers, untangling, and re-tangling. The gesture soothed my frizzling nerves and lent me an almost meditative state of mind.

"Huh?" Lucien scowled at me, evidently convinced he'd missed something.

I ignored the 'huh' and carried on, staring into the dancing firelight, seeing memory play out upon my mind's stage. "A couple weeks ago—before I went after Phillida…I was given the deed to a private retreat. Far south, past Leyawiin. Did you know about that?"

"I know there was a…a special correspondence for you. But not the sender, or the contents. It was sealed and warded," Lucien answered. "I was told to get it to you as quickly as may be—and so I did," he shrugged.

"What's the likelihood anyone else would know what was in that letter?" I asked.

"With those wards? Unlikely…what are you getting at?" Lucien cocked his head in my peripheral vision as I shifted to slouch comfortably, crossing my knees and jiggling a slippered foot.

"I'm saying that it is a distinct possibility," abandoning the thought of sitting still, I got to my feet, feeling a flutter of excitement, "that no one but me, and now you, knows about Deepscorn Hollow."

"Deepscorn Hollow? It's a myth, it doesn't exi…" he stopped himself mid-word and stood up. ""It does exist?" I nodded. "That's…not possible, Greywyn died…"

Excuse me? "How come you know about him?!" I demanded, looking over at Lucien, meditative thoughts broken in face of the fact that Lucien knew about Greywyn.

"Because I was _there_." Lucien stated, as if he'd been struck across the face with a heavy-bottomed pan. "It was just after Vicente had this Dunmer friend of his confirm something for him…the Crimson Scars Rebellion," he shrugged. "I was there when we raided their headquarters—killed a lot of vampires. Some escaped, of course but…" he trailed off, waving illustratively.

_I said watch the _door_. _

"Valerian?"

"How do _you_ know about Valerian?" Lucien arched his eyebrows, wearing an expression much akin to mine.

Wow—this is the night for revelations, isn't it? I shrugged. "Vicente said she was a go-to girl for information, and that she went back to Morrowind shortly after." I letting him assume whatever he liked about it. "But you said…."

"Yes, family business, I think. I was eighteen," Lucien shrugged. "Greywyn was a fanatic, bent on turning the entire Brotherhood into some kind of vampiric, blood-lusting Sithian cult…Vicente didn't much appreciate that, being a vampire himself and a fairly well-tempered fellow. It was a close thing that he wasn't tarred and feathered with the rest of them."

"A spy?" I blinked. There's a lot of history here I don't have, and it's positively intriguing.

"One of several," Lucien nodded. "But you said you found the Hollow," he prompted.

"'_Found'_? I didn't find it, I was _deeded _the thing…Claude's been looking after…"

"Who?" Lucien shook his head in confusion.

"Oh, Claude is one of the dark guardians…" I was prattling, and Lucien was staring at me like he'd never quite seen me before. I smiled. "Do you want to go see it?" I offered, moving to get up immediately if the answer turned out to be 'yes'.

Lucien's mouth tugged towards a smile. "I thought you had a party to go to."

"There won't _be_ any more parties if everyone winds up dead, Lucien," I said practically. "We can go right now. I'll just have to make up an occasion or weasel out the date of someone's birthday and throw another _big_ party later. And you can come." Cheerfully, happy—you've gotta come, or they'll tar and feather _me_ for missing _this_ engagement. After the party's over, of course.

Lucien was smiling in sinister-plotting fashion by now. "We'll take Shadowmere." he started off.

"You do know your horse is crazy, right?" I asked half-heartedly. Something about this horse bothers me—though I can't explain what, exactly. She's never tried to bite me…but I don't think it's because she likes me.

"Why? She hasn't bitten you yet, has she?" Lucien asked as if reading my mind, starting up the ladder.

I watched him go, rather enjoying the view. It struck me here that Lucien really is a gentleman—else he'd have had me go first. I gathered a handful of my dress and started up after him.

I hadn't seen Lucien pick up Shadowmere's bridle, but when I popped topside, it was gleaming black in his hand as he walked up to her. There's a very strong bond of loyalty…even love…between the man and the horse…and get your minds out of the sewer, it's not like _that_. Don't be disgusting. Still…it almost explains where he gets his people skills, when he's not aiming to piss someone off.

"Sarielle."

"Right!" I trotted forward and frowned. How am I supposed to ride pillion in this stupid dress?

Lucien seemed to have spotted this. "Where...would you be most comfortable…in that getup," he motioned to my inappropriate riding clothes, "or do you want to go back and change first?"

"Nonsense…I'll just…" A sinister smile crept across the back of my mind, even though there was no hint of it on my face. "I'll just ride in front of you—you can make sure I don't slip off, or fall, or something really embarrassing," I declared.

"Your faith is astounding," Lucien retorted mildly, soothing Shadowmere as she stomped, as if offended by my comment.

"Well, it's like you said," came my innocuous response, "you're a gentleman." With that he helped me climb up ahead of him. I wound up sitting crossways because of my dress, but it was not an uncomfortable arrangement. He could smell my perfume—which I was quite sure he was doing, and I could have an innocent reason to lean up against him, my arms wrapped over the one he had around my waist to help steady me in place.


	68. Chapter 68

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Seven

--

We reached Deepscorn under the cover of darkness, avoiding the eyes of people, animals, everything. Lucien stopped Shadowmere, helped me down, then swung loose, taking her bridle off. "I don't know how long we'll be, settle in until I come back for you." He rubbed her nose, feeding her something from a pocket before giving her flank an affectionate tap and she strutted off, melting into the darkness. Lucien turned back to me.

I motioned towards the Topal Bay, straight that way, boss-man.

"Nice place," he announced blandly.

"I know you don't like to swim…" I was disappointed as Lucien sighed long-sufferingly before he walked up to the edge of the bay. This part of the Bay doesn't have a sandy beach to lie on—land just drops steeply off into saltwater. It's my one complaint about Deepscorn Hollow: no real beach.

But a small complaint nonetheless, therefore hardly worth considering.

"I said I don't _like_ to, it's not that I can't…" Lucien corrected mildly.

I approached the edge. I have no intention of getting wet—I'll meet him at the front door. "Okay, once you get under there's this big log—just swim through it, you'll find the door, no problem. No passwords, no funny locks," I said this very quietly, so the wind could neither steal the words, nor would they be overheard by any presence we may have missed, despite the fact we'd both cast detect-life, our eyes still flickering with remnants of the spell.

"Right…see you in a minute." He expected I was going to follow him. Goodness knows I've made it clear the dress can be ruined, it won't bother me. I just don't want to get wet. It'll be funny, when he shows up all soaking while I'm dry as a bone.

I took off at a sprint, found the back entrance, dropped down, barked to Ark that I had company, and to have the others waiting in Deepscorn proper. I arrived a little out of breath as Lucien came wading out of the water.

He gagged slightly, massaging his throat as the gills he'd sprouted—water-breathing—flattened back into the skin of his neck. You can't rub the gills or you put your fingers in them, which is _very_ uncomfortable, like shoving a finger too far up one's own nose. Lucien coughed a couple of times, sniffling as his regular breathing resumed. "Ugh, I hate that…" He rubbed his neck where the gills were, now they were closed. "You'd think with all the advances of modern magicka…we'd have come up with a water-breathing spell that's a little less…violent…"

I know what that's like—growing and un-growing gills is like sneezing too hard with your nose pinched closed—it makes you feel like you've blown out part of your neck. Then he saw me, dry as a bone, just as pretty as I looked topside.

He shook his head slowly, as one might to the cat one suspects of having stolen supper right off the table, but with no proof that said cat committed the dastardly deed.

I snickered, waving at him to follow me while taking off at a sedate walk. "See," I pointed to the window in the roof.

Lucien's humored-annoyance with me vanished for the moment as he strode over, shedding water everywhere. The garden plot thrived under the care of the guardians—there are spells, stronger now than previously, in the stone ring bordering the garden to help it grow fast, grow well. "This is an interesting thing…I wonder if I could get something like this to take back to Farragut..." He prodded the earth of the patch with his foot, then knelt and ran a hand along the pitted stone, feeling out the enchantments. Then he shook his head—I don't think he could duplicate them—I couldn't. At first it doesn't seem like a terribly difficult casting. Just very complex. I could break it down, but that doesn't mean I could cast it. "Of course…that means tearing up the floors…" Lucien sighed.

Not worth it, apparently.

"Come on—let's get you dried off," I tugged on his wrist before starting forward, smiling as I ignored the look he gave me. 'Dried off' indeed.

Claude was waiting with his fellows—though I noticed, of the six, he was immediately recognizable to someone who didn't know the guardians, because he wore a silver chain across his shoulders, confirming my suspicions. Namely Claude was created as a sort of personal servant instead of generic help.

Claude bowed as Ark swept forward with a towel—this one was fluffier, I noticed, than the ones on my last trip. I didn't ask, so the guardians didn't tell me where all this stuff comes from. I can only assume that like a good functionary, Claude is handling it. He'll let me know if we run into problems. It's not exactly like I can't fund this place. It would be nice to make it a little comfier, though—I suppose I know what to use those septims accumulating in my footlocker for, now.

Lucien accepted the towel with a muffled 'thanks' and began drying off his hair.

"Claude, this is Lucien, my Speaker, and my guest," I announced.

Claude clattered his finger bones, continuing for a moment, while thoughtful lines of concentration began to crease my brow, giving way to a wicked little grin. Oooh….Lucien's going to love _that_….

"What'd he say?" Lucien asked, appearing a little frizzy-haired from behind the towel.

"He says you're to leave your boots here, he'll see that a change of clothes is provided…they're a little fastidious…" I answered with a smirk. "I, on the other hand, am going with Ark to see about something to eat while we're here…Alastair, is there a guest...excellent, thank you," this last was the answer to 'is there a guest room' and the wine he handed off to me, then another to Lucien. "I'll leave you with Claude for now, Claude," Claude bowed, turned and clattered his teeth at Lucien, pointing towards Lucien's feet.

The meaning was perfectly clear : _boots_.

I stifled a giggle as I trotted alongside Ark. Claude is used to being 'in charge', deferring only to me—Lucien's free to growl and cuss and fuss all he wants…Claude'll make him _do_, because unlike me, Claude is bound to serve the master of Deepscorn Hollow—the Brotherhood and our hierarchy simply don't figure into it. "Oh Ark…do you think I'm mean?" I asked once we were out of earshot.

Alastair gave a guardians' laugh, a sound like air moving thought a dusty passage, and shook his head.

I grinned—poor Lucien. And I don't feel even a little sorry…payback is a bitch…

--S--

We took supper in the dining hall—which I almost never do. It's absolutely ridiculous for one person to use such a big table for a meal. It makes me feel isolated, pretentious, and just stupid. But Lucien and I did use it tonight, because we were also pouring over the deed, then note, and Greywyn's journal in between bites, leaning on the furniture with reckless disregard for the proper dining environment the guardians kept trying to set up. "It's _work_!" I finally said as Claude picked at my clothing, trying to get me—for the love of knives and forks—to _sit_ _down_ so he could hand me a napkin, enabling another guardian to bring the soup. "We'll eat standing—we're fine."

Lucien, wearing clothes just a little too big for him—I suspected Greywyn's old things—snickered as I waved at the guardians while looking down at our project. The antiquated style was rather flattering; he looks good in blue. I on the other hand, wore the spare clothes I'd left here on my last trip. The guardians have already started laundering my dress and seeing to Lucien's armor. I suspected they'd wax the armor as well as check it for wear, but that's me. They're wonderfully fastidious creatures.

"They're _tyrants_," Lucien grunted, as if able to read my mind.

I chuckled, for once not concerned by this creepy habit of his, patting his shoulder. "You should have seen the place when I _got_ here—I don't blame them in the least." I had yet to give him a proper tour of the place—the paperwork was more interesting at this point.

"These aren't event the same writers…look," he tapped the note. "This handwriting looks like a lady's."

"You know, I thought that too," I responded mildly, picking up the mug of soup Claude placed by my elbow, rattling sulkily as he did so, and sipped at it. Carrot—delicious. "Mmm. Try the soup…But it's obviously not mine." I set the mug down, reached a piece of paper and a pen then scribbled out the first line. "See?" I picked the mug back up, once more sipping its contents. This is really good….

"Do you need a moment alone with that?" Lucien asked. I could hear his smile, even if I couldn't see it.

I shook my head, grinning into my cup. Nope. I'm good.

"Well, I know it's not yours," Lucien said mildly. "And you've no idea…?"

"I told you," I said without annoyance, accidentally slurping the dregs of my soup, glancing at the guardians and then at Lucien. He'd so far ignored dinner and the guardians looked thoroughly frustrated, as they couldn't cook to please the diners. I leaned over to whisper surreptitiously. "Better eat—you're hurting their feelings."

Lucien looked like he was ready to remind me that technically dark guardians don't have feeling to hurt, but he considered, then shrugged and started on his soup. "Hmm…that's not bad at all," he noted with surprise.

"It's _wonderful_," I addressed this to the guardians, all of whom promptly seemed to brighten up. I wonder, did Greywyn teach them to recognize human emotions, so they could react accordingly, be more useful to him?

Lucent glanced over his shoulder at them and then at me, smiling and shaking his head slowly. "You've got those poor things wrapped around your little finger."

"I didn't do it!" I protested, a little surprised by the comment. Well, I guess it's true…but look at me and look at Greywyn… "They've always been like that."

"Hmm." I got the feeling he wasn't really listening. "This place is secure?"

"Claude?" I asked. I simply assumed that if a vampire could live down here without concern, why not a living person? I forgot, for a moment, about detect-life spells...but there are spells one can use to ward a building against such searches, to prevent voyeurism. Most homes are warded. Claude, alone of all the guardians, was standing off to my left, in case I wanted anything. I notice, the guardians have become a little clingier lately.

Claude laughed, then punched one hand into the other.

"Very secure—Greywyn hid out here for quite a while, remember? And no one knew…no one except whoever sent the deed, apparently. I've never had visitors, or couriers or anything," I answered. "It's not an answer…but it might help give way to one. Like you said: A place to hide."

"It certainly is. So," his eyes glittered. "Do I get a tour?"

"After supper," I responded as Claude snickered. "That's not nice," I reprimanded gently.

The snicker stopped.

Lucien and I finished supper, sitting down like normal people, after which Claude finally pulled my chair back and let me walk off with Lucien in tow, to show him around the complex.

--S--

"Even if this could work," I said cautiously, scowling at the scribbled plots, foiled plots, and a few pieces of paper with _I hate my boss's boss_ scribbled in varying degrees of girly loopy writing, my head was starting to hurt.

Lucien considered one of the _I hate my boss' boss_ pages before crumpling it and lobbing it at one of the dark guardians.

I reached out, caught it and swatted it back at him. "They don't understand the game."

The wad of paper sailed over Lucien's shoulder to the container a long-suffering Claude put there for this very reason: our disposition to throw garbage. "You know…" Lucien pondered for a moment. "I do have a…a contact in the Mage's Guild."

"Oh?" It would be stupid to ask 'who'.

"Yes…and I know a favor for which the Mages' Guild would…pardon the pun…kill to have done."

"Then how do we get in?" I asked with a grin.

"Easy—I make it your first job _after_ all this is in place," Lucien tapped a finger on the table, eyes half-closed. He only does it when he's thinking hard.

I licked my teeth distastefully. "The Mage's Guild asks a lot of questions."

"But not of me," Lucien responded without sounding too egotistical, opening his eyes. A real feat, considering the smirk on his face.

"Okay, so, you make the arrangement, we get them moved…how're we going to kill them without killing them?"

I held up a finger. "Motierre."

"What about him?" I heard Lucien' append softly, under his breath 'little _s'wit_'.

"We used poison on him—faked his death," I shrugged.

"Languorwine won't work in this case…"

"Melisande."

"Of Glenmoril?" Lucien blinked in surprise.

"I don't mean Melisande of Hackdirt." I answered dryly, though I smiled. "Yes, the witch of Glenmoril—she might have a solution. It can't hurt to ask her—we can swing by the Imperial City on the way up," I waved.

"Let's go."

"Now?"

"You may not have noticed," Lucien said benignly "but we don't exactly have a lot of time. This has to be done before the Black Hand reconvenes…"

I didn't hear the rest. I shot to my feet, sprinting to gather my things, shouting orders at whichever guardian was close enough to hear me.

The place is going to be a wreck when I get back.

--S--

I never found out what Lucien said or did, all he told me, when he got out of his meeting with some Mages' Guild representative, was that it was set, the spell would be ready in a few days.

All I had to do was go after a might-already-be-a-lich-thing later.

It was here we discussed how the hard part would be done.

"Namely so you don't accidently let slip anything useful," Lucien said. "I have an idea, but I'm sure you won't like it."

"Compulsion—repress the memories and give me a guiding directive?" I asked. An obvious answer.

Lucien actually stopped Shadowmere, tapping my shoddier until I turned in the saddle to look back at him.

"What?" I asked.

He looked nothing short of shocked. "That…was the idea..."

"It's the _only_ idea," I corrected, giving Shadowmere a hesitant kick. She stayed put.

Lucien repeated the same gesture and the horse started to walk. Ugh. Go figure.

"I didn't think you'd approve." How kind of him to think about me.

"I don't have a whole lot of _choice—_besides, unless we figure out a 'how' of coming up with enough supposedly-dead bodies, it's all academic." The soft pronouncement left me feeling sick.

"That's right." But we're both committed to trying, to finding a way to make this work.

No way Bellamont is going to score this kind of victory: not on this side of anything.

--S--

Melisande opened the door, looking from Lucien to me, grimacing. "Who's drugging whom?" she asked, her mouth twisted as though she could not quite believe who was on her doorstep. Together, no less.

"Auntie Mel," Lucien said winningly, beaming at her. Damn—he's putting it on thick—for a moment I thought I saw his eyes twinkle. "Would I ever do that to a lady?" he asked.

"You _know_ I don't ask those sort of questions…well, if you're both here and you're both in your right minds…come in," she stepped aside.

"Auntie Mel?" I whispered to Lucien.

He glanced back at me, smiling, still with the charisma practically streaming off him. Wow…it could actually _work_ if I didn't know what it was. "Uncle Vee?"

"Eh," I sighed as we stepped in "You've got me there."

"Of course. And that," he added, putting a hand on my shoulder, "is _without _a charm spell."

I could have whacked him upside the head.

--Author's notes appended—

"…most homes are warded…" Sarielle is explaining why you can use detect-life on the streets and not see life-forces inside the houses. And the reverse: how come you can see life-forces in a house, but not out on the street. We all know it's a gameplay restriction, but in Sarielle's real/working world, this is why.


	69. Chapter 69

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Eight

--

If there were ever a time to be scared, this was not it. Melisande's poison sat in a fat green-glass bottle, closely resembling ropes of twisted glass, corked with a green glass stopper. My Blade of Woe and Sufferthorn – both retrieved from my bag of gear – lay on Lucien's workbench.

We stood facing each other over a small table, where the rest of our plans were finalized.

"My contact provided the spell…" Lucien began.

"You can work it alone?" We've been interrupting each other like this all afternoon. It's getting close to curtain. We need to be totally ready.

"Yes," he nodded. "Take Tel first, she'll be close to Leyawiin. I'll come right behind you, move her, explain what's happening, then get back up here before you get back from the Purification," Lucien tapped the back of my hand, as I continued looking at the papers on the table.

I felt ill, nervous, anxious, even scared. However, all this was nothing compared to the reality of the situation – we simply have no time left.

"Sarielle?"

"Yeah?" I looked up, to find Lucien peering at me, looking genuinely worried.

"Sarielle…There will be pain, you will _suffer_, in a way I can't prepare you for…" he tried. I suppose he has to – it can't be easy, asking me to live with this sort of guilt, lack of knowledge about the real state of things.

I shook my head, holding up a hand, feeling cold determination settle in the pit of my stomach, though it did little to ease my butterflies. "For my Family, I will bear any pain, dare any fate. It's my choice, and my choice comes down to this: either we make this attempt, or I really _will_ lose the whole family. Plus, if I wind up in deep shit…imagine where you'll be," I added rather gently.

"Yes, dead in a ditch somewhere, I suspect," Lucien responded blandly, though he grimaced.

I patted his hand. "I trust you, it's ok. I don't see that we have a better choice, Lucien. Let me deal with my side…you just get your spells and plots ready." Again, very gently. I appreciate he doesn't want me to suffer – but better suffer now, than to hope things will be okay, only to suffer worse later.

"And if Bellamont comes after you?" Lucien asked quietly.

"I killed Phillida. Bellamont's failed to kill me twice," I shrugged, before looking over at Lucien. "I would like few things better." I'm not underestimating him – underestimation doesn't figure in. The fact is, I'll be hurt, I'll be angry at myself, even at the world…to see him walk up to me would be…perfect. No animal is as dangerous as a wounded one…except perhaps a mother with young.

Lucien sighed, shaking his head in an attitude of 'I tried'. He remained silent a long time, chewing on the inside of his own mouth in deep concentration, then finally he sighed. "As we have no better alternatives, and as you're determined…"

"Would it make you feel better if you knew that…I'm scared?" I asked, glancing up at him. It is scary- it's very scary. Not the least because the whole time I'll think I've done something…horrible.

He nodded. I knew what he meant by it: you're not the only one. Though, of course, being a Speaker as well as a man, he'd never admit it. It's what I've noticed—the guys won't admit when they're scared or freaked out to a lady.

We ladies don't care so much.

But, he also reached out, gripping one of my hands. "If you weren't, I would be worried."

"Right…the weapons first," I prompted, squeezing his hand.

"Leave Sufferthorn where you can't get to it – it's heavily enchanted. The Blade of Woe…"

"…is almost mundane and won't hurt the others, except for a nasty nick," I finished the thought as we walked over to the workbench. Lucien poured the poison Melisande had prepared over the blade, letting it soak in, almost like honey into bread. With a sickening quiver in my stomach I watched Lucien poison the other side, then we waited, until the odd green tinge absorbed fully into the blade, leaving her looking as she always did.

"All right, put it in your gear," Lucien carefully handed the Blade of Woe over.

I slid her into her sheath, checking that Sufferthorn's belt was still in my bag. "Keep a close eye on this…I'm kind of attached to it," I said, tapping Sufferthorn with one finger.

"I'll keep it in my desk," Lucien assured me, placing it in what turned out to be a cleverly hidden drawer. "Right there, should you need it."

"Right," I nodded. "Now comes the hard part…" I took a deep, steadying breath. The scary part.

A compulsion is a force to make a person do something. In this case, Lucien and I were going to chain magicka, I would listen, while he placed several compulsions on me, one to guide my actions, one to cloud my memories, one to keep my thoughts bottled, so I wouldn't puzzle things out if the spellwork was…less than professional.

It took me two days after coming to the conclusion it was the only way to finally decide 'yes, I can do this'. Putting oneself in someone else's power this way is highly unsettling, even if you trust them completely. I found I still had some reservations about letting Lucien poke around in my head.

"As far as you know," Lucien instructed as we walked over towards the entrance, "you'll just have had a dizzy spell, or you'll think you passed out. Shock – you won't realize you've lost almost a week until you get back into the real world." He began to rub his hands together, as if to warm them.

I checked myself – I had even restyled my hair, the way I'd worn it the first night I'd arrived here.

"Trust me." Lucien said.

"I do," of course I do. I wouldn't do this if I didn't. I closed my eyes and tried to relax – the less I struggle against the compulsions he sets up, the less risk that they won't take properly, because contrary to popular belief, the strong-willed can fight off any compulsion placed or maintained by someone with a less strong will. The power of the mind is never to be underestimated.

Lucien's bare fingertips found my temples, settled, then worked a few times, massaging counterclockwise, more for my benefit than because it was a necessary preparation.

"Are you ready?" Lucien's voice asked.

"I am," I reiterated.

"Very well – let's get started." He took a deep slow breath, which I matched. It helped to distract me from struggling – which would be the very first instinct.

Lucien's' fingertips against my temples became very warm, a moment later the world froze.

I can't move…I can't think…this isn't right…

"…don't' struggle…" Lucien's voice said, oddly resonant, both in my ears and inside my head. "Stop it, Sarielle…"

…no, you don't belong up here…go away…

"Relax…"

My breathing caught – I can't breathe without permission…I can't think…

"Breathe, in," breathe in. "And out…" let it go… "Relax…it's all right…"

…fine…exempt…it's not…not really…

White mist swirled, glittered…pretty lights…a safe shrouded mystery….

"Good," Lucien's voice declared, sounding tired, as if he had just set down a heavy burden, or pushed past one. "All right," Lucien shifted his hot hands against my face, thumbs resting against my cheekbones, breathing the signs for a strong compulsion against my forehead, now that the connection was set. I could feel the drain on my magicka, even as it poured into me, making the binding stronger.

There are no chains stronger than those we place upon ourselves…

The signs against my skin burned or froze slightly, like little kisses, as they took. Within a few minutes I felt very disoriented, a headache brewing. Both of which are completely normal. All that existed within a few minutes were the very-real hands against my face along with the definition of the compulsion itself.

"Do you understand?" Lucien asked, sounding as though he were steadying himself for the next stage.

"I understand," I answered simply.

"Good," my vision was dancing with bright spots that made it impossible to see the real world, and pain began to lance above my eyes, and in the base of my skull, as if pins were being driven in. I felt my brow furrow. "Remember, after the Purification, Farragut is not safe. Not now. Not for you."

"Yes."

"Good. You are going to do as you are told. Trust me. You will carry out the Purification as instructed – with your Blade of Woe. But just a nick. Just a scratch, Just deep enough to look good. Non-lethal blows. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. When you are instructed to remember, you will remember only if the threat is over, if Bellamont is dead. Do you understand? Not before."

"Yes."

"Good." A heavy sigh. "Now I grant you tools to carry out your mission…"

Wait, this isn't part of what we discussed. I tried to pull back but the compulsion already outlined that I should trust Lucien, and that was already in effect, I could no more pull away than reach out and touch the moons with a bare hand.

"I give you strength in the face of pain. I give you courage in the face of guilt. I give you a small measure of hope…as you face despair. It will lie heavy on you, but it will not kill you, will not stifle you. Will allow you to carry on – always carry on. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I answered. That wasn't so bad. It was something I hadn't thought of.

"Good. Now – you'll remember nothing, from this moment, back to the moment you first walked into the fort. As far as you are concerned, it's only been a few hours. You'll justify the time difference to yourself and think no more on it."

"Yes…"

Darkness rolled across my vision and I felt for a moment as if my head had split down the center, and as if chisels had been driven between my brow ridge and my eyeballs. I gasped, tried to gasp for breath, in the unexpected pain and pitched forward. There was no air for a moment, then my lungs expanded and I mouthed wordlessly, my eyes rolling with pain…

--S--

"Sarielle?"

White mist…white fog…so very sleepy… "…'es."

"Do you hear me?"

"Yes," I have to answer..it's my job. Trust. Answer. Obey.

A cool hand touched a fevered cheek. I've been crying…I hurt. Something…bad…it's very bad…

"Shh, rest." I settled. I have to. "Sarielle…I'm changing your orders, just a little. You're hurt – so we must find a way to heal you. Isn't that so?"

If you say so…free will lapped against…chains. Some kind of chain…I don't understand…

"The longer you are away from Cheydinhal, the more the pain will numb. Will heal. You must stay away from Deepscorn Hollow, and Fort Farragut. They are not safe – they are no bastion of security for you. But to Cheydinhal you should go, should need take you there. It is safe."

"Safe," I repeated. Is anywhere truly safe?

"Heal quickly…I have to go clean up your mess now," his tone smiled gently. I felt something cool touch my brow…like a kiss…and fog swirled in. "You won't remember this talk."

--S--

Lucien's disembodied voice gave a strained chuckle, and an invisible hand came to rest hesitantly on my shoulder, as though he wasn't sure he was still allowed to touch me so familiarly, after having tried to beat me senseless.

I reached up and patted his hand reassuringly. I probably would have done the same thing…and although it hurt…well. I know that in normal circumstances, it would _never_ have happened. I know it makes me sound stupid, but I would know. Lucien's not the type to slap people around for minor infractions, or no reason at all. Never. Not to Family, anyway.

"Sarielle, you'll need her wings more than I. Time is very short."

I nodded and turned to pick a way down…

"Sarielle," Lucien seized me from behind, covering my eyes with one hand. Before I could protest, or even react on instinct my body locked up, the world ceased to be, past the voice whispering in my ear, the feel of my head held firmly by the brow, pressing into a solid shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes…" the answer came from my lips almost against my will. Almost. But…my will…my will was…to do…what I was told. I felt my body slacken, all attempts to fight back wiped away with the gentle sensation of floating, of submitting to a stronger will. Letting someone else think, fight, cope with nastiness...my job was simpler. It was better to just be told…better to just be told…

"Good," the weight of his hand over my eyes made them close. I was content to lean against him, quite capable of standing, but not really wanting to wander off. It's safe here. For the moment, it's the last safe place…

…the very last safe place for you…no, for _me_…I've gotta think…

…No. No, there's no need to think. Just listen…he only wants to talk…he wants what's best…

"Now, it's time to change your orders. It's very dangerous now. You must be very careful. You know what you need to do. But here's what you must prepare for. Are you ready?"

"Yes." It was all I could answer – there was no 'no' allowed. Why would I want to say no? There would be no point.

"Good. There may come a time...in the very near future when I come into trouble. Don't worry, don't be afraid," I felt one of his hands stroke my cheek, but it wasn't necessary. Why would I be afraid? Or worried?

He has the plan…he has the answers. "Here is what you must do. It will look like suicide. But it is not. You must make sure my body is put somewhere…safe. Somewhere where the Black Hand won't get to it – distract them. Can you do that? For me, Sarielle?" It sounded like a genuine request, as if he were asking me to pick up eggs at the market.

Of course. Why wouldn't I? "Yes."

"Good," for a moment I felt a tickle of breath against my cheek, as though he had half-meant to kiss it, but he did not. "If things go badly…stop Bellamont. That's your focus: stop Bellamont. I'm going to let you go now. Remember: if it is suicide…the body _must_ be preserved, and honored. Try not to bury me too deep." The fingers stopped the gentle cress of my throat, just above the collar of my armor.

"I understand," I nodded.

"Good. Go with speed – don't actively remember this conversation."


	70. Chapter 70

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Vulnerable

--

"And that's it – the whole delicious plot," the voice smiled.

Mmm…my head's killing me…I'm on the ground, pleasantly disoriented…won't be so pleasant when I figure out what's going on, I'm sure…but for now….I'm on the _ground_? _Again_? Why the hell…never mind. I tend not to want to know anyway. But it is lovely and dark…my head's clanging away…

"…So…what's it all mean?"

Arquen…what a knucklehead? Didn't I just tell you what it all meant…I win…you lose…I smiled catlike. I knew Lucien was clever…and apparently so am I, because this half-cocked scheme _worked_.

"Yes, smile all you like – do get up off the floor," the Night Mother declared dryly.

Oh, right. Eyes, Sari – you've gotta open your eyes_._ The ceiling appeared above me, looming solid in the velvety darkness. I hesitantly sat up, finding both the Night Mother and Arquen looking down at me. I gave them both a cocky half-grin. "It means…I win…" Slowly, I regained my feet. Ugh…my head feels so clear…it hasn't been so un-foggy for ages…

"Yes, you win," the Night Mother sounded amused, thought the look she gave me was assessing, calculating even.

I stretched, limbering up. It's so _weird_, not feeling like there's a ton of cotton wool between my ears…

Reality hit a moment later. The others…are fine…they're safe…but…what happens when I go back? How will they react? I 'killed' them – we'll all remember those events…but Lucien knows…he'd tell them…it was the only way…wasn't it?

My stomach began to quake…I think the one who scared me most was Vicente. The others never realized what was going on…but Vicente saw…

"So…" I looked up, and then changed my stance, to something a little more polite, more formal. "At last we meet. I have been following your strange journey through the Dark Brotherhood, young one. You, a mere underling, managed to single-handedly eliminate half of my Black Hand!"

I looked up, startled—is she angry? Why…well, yes, I suppose I did get a little carried away, killing off her Black Hand…too bad I didn't get Arquen earlier – the woman's thick as a post. A sheep in the pack.

"Arquen?" the Night Mother startled both Arquen and I out of preoccupied silence – I heard the Altmer gasp.

"Yes, Unholy Matron?" Arquen stooped in low obeisance.

"Get that filth out of here," the Night Mother motioned to the head of Bellamont's mother, dropped when I'd stabbed him, kicked away somewhere during the struggle.

Arquen's expression hardened, then she found my face and blanched. "Yes, Unholy Matron," she bowed again and swept forward to scoop up the head.

"As for you…_Sarielle_." The name raised prickles up and down my spine in a way it never had before.

The Night Mother glided over to me, her spectral features harder to read up close. One ghostly hand lifted and she took my chin in misty-cool fingers, so I would either look at her, or run the risk of having her reach through me – which doesn't sound very comfortable. "Yes…you'll do well, very well…" she mused.

I blinked. Well…?

"You've done a marvelously efficient job of cutting through my Black Hand. Particularly for one so young."

I paid for most of those fights, too, in blood, in scars, in pain…it wasn't exactly a cakewalk. "I live to serve, Unholy Matron," I answered automatically. She's exactly what I thought she'd be like, really: powerful, a little scary, intimidating, proud….the perfect person to be running our business. You can tell, just by looking at her, she's Dunmer to her core. Ruthless, cunning, inventive, and when she was alive I'll bet she had a really good killing arm herself.

"I know, dear child, I know," the Night Mother then let my chin go and cackled. "You carried out your orders to the _letter_, in the name of the Black Hand. How could I be anything but happy with you?" She reached up and touched my hair, like a mother might, but the effect was ruined by the look on her face which declared boldly that I was very useful. She was not an affectionate mother…but she didn't need to be. The fact I was useful, considered to be of good quality, meant a lot to me. "No, my anger lies with the rest of my children– barring dear Lucien, of course." Again, coldly calculating, though there did seem to be a flicker of fondness for this particularly ruthless piece of work.

Lucien…we're both alive…so now what? Business as usual? Awkward silences? I'm afraid. Afraid that something else in my life will…break. I don't know how much more I can take…but if he's there…if he's whole and alive…

"You see, I have known of Mathieu Bellamont's intentions since he was just a boy."

My eyes flashed up to her ghostly face, all wispy thoughts blown away like fog. You _knew_? You _knew_ and you still….you didn't…"My Lady?" I asked, helplessly. We suffered, we struggled…we so very nearly lost everything…and _you_ _knew_?!

"Of course I did!" The Night Mother declared, arching her eyebrows at me. "How could I not? This is _my family_."

I backed up a half pace.

"I knew of his thirst for vengeance. I _could_ have informed my Listener. But I _refused_!" The Night Mother turned and began gliding, like a woman pacing, her spectral robes rippling around her. Arquen had resettled sometime between now and her orders to remove the head, sitting on the stairs into the crypt like a child, her arms wrapped around her knees, listening, drinking in the tale. From the look on her face, she was drinking the dregs of embarrassment and debacles as well.

"I refuse to reward such incompetence! Ungolim was weak, a poor Listener…and my Hand decayed and rotted from within because of it…" Such anger….oooh boy, I'm glad she's not mad at me. She's scary. "I allowed Mathieu Bellamont to proceed on his destructive course. Just as I allowed you to intercept him." The Night Mother turned, crossing her arms. "Did you think that you have come here by pure luck only? Who do you think whispered subtle hints, so when you came up for recruitment, you fell to Lucien's Sanctuary? Did you think it coincidence that when you lay poisoned, unable to fight, dying, hidden from the world, he found you and brought you home?"

Something in my stomach shifted.

"He is aptly named because _I_ have guided his steps since he was very young, just as I have guided yours. And now look – you both live….the others do not."

True – except Arquen.

"Long have I known what a strong leader my Lucien is – the two of you work very well together. Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be of the same mold. Your Dread Father," she bowed her head, one hand over her heart, "foresaw all this," she waved to the crypt. "The plots, the deception, the betrayal…even your victory here!"

I looked away. "It was Lucien's plan…I just…" Just what? I don't like where this is going…

The Night Mother chuckled softly. "Humility…what a concept. You do not give yourself due credit. You possess strength, and cunning, and a heart as black as midnight. You were marked by Sithis the moment you emerged from your mother's womb. You were mine the day you were born," her ghostly hand lifted my chin again. "And now…"

"Deepscorn Hollow…" I searched her face, hoping for some clue to what she was thinking, but found done. "You sent…"

"Of course!" She smiled here, sinisterly. "Greywyn returned to the Dread Father, even if he did not return to the fold. As such, his legacy was passed into my keeping. I knew one of the two of you would hit on a plan if you had a safe place to go. And you did, didn't you?" she smiled. "I think it will amuse us both to throw a little wrench in Lucien's machinations…" This was more to herself than to me. She looked away, thinking, then turned back to me. "I am appointing _you _my Listener, Sarielle…"

Arquen flinched, looking as though her heart had just been pulled from her chest.

"I want you to put Lucien back where he belongs, in Cheydinhal, and in my service. Rebuild my Black Hand, rebuild the Family. Arquen," the Altmer got to her feet and hurried before the Night Mother. "You will prepare Cheydinhal for the arrival of the Listener and her Sanctuary. Go," the Night Mother waved and Arquen vanished, sent presumably to Cheydinhal. "And as for you…" the Night Mother turned. "I shall send you back to Deepscorn Hollow. Collect your followers, your family, return to Cheydinhal. You may return here to collect the contracts, once you've…settled in." She wore a funny smile when she said this, and reached out to place her palm against my forehead.

The world pitched, but unlike any time before, and I felt fatigue settle on me, so heavily, and with it, all the irrational fears, all the rational fears that come with being just too tired…why is she spelling me?

--S--

I gasped in pain as my knees contacted solid ground. For a moment I felt deep confusion...where am I? Why is there blackness flapping around me…the second question as easy: My Speaker's robes changed, slightly, more voluminous, and they were flapping in the brisk wind that was blowing out around me. I was in Deepscorn hollow, facing water…

No, facing the pool. It was originally intended to be a vampirism curing bath…but I don't think anyone ever touched the blood purge salts, not since Greywyn. I have no use for them…

"Sarielle?"

I looked up from the ground to see Lucien standing some feet back, waist-deep in the pool. Looks like I interrupted his swim. Too tired…I'm just too tired…and he's _here_. And well. I felt myself start to break – though I think it's more relief than anything else.

Lucien anticipated the break, and when I simply pitched forward, eyes screwed shut, unable to articulate, he caught me, and rather than try to awkwardly put me back on the edge of the pool, he simply stepped back until I fell in, and put my feet on the floor. But even once I was standing, he didn't let me go, didn't try to make me be any stronger, didn't ask me to wear a game face until I could get to a place it would be safe to break in…

"Vicente!" Lucien's voice cut through the air.

"No..." I squeaked, and for a moment struggled to stagger back. It was against my better instincts to separate myself from this last bastion of safety. Lucien was warm, I could hear his heartbeat beneath my ear –as well as his call for Vicente.

Lucien pressed one hand against the back of my head when I tried to pull away. "Hold still," he grunted, but not unkindly.

"She's back," Vicente's voice said. "No, no," Vicente must have turned to stopped the others. "She's in no state! She's alive, she's fine...off you go, _no_ Gogron!"

I heard Gogron's voice thundering and pounding in my ears.

"Who spelled you?" Lucien asked gently in my ear, his grip tightening almost…protectively

"I think…_she_ did…" I whispered, beginning to shake. Oh, I'll bet my armor is going to scratch him up really badly….

"Sarielle? I need you to talk to me," Lucien said calmly. "What's the situation?"

I forced my battered brain to turn a few times. "Bellamont's dead…"

"Good," I felt the pressure of the hand on my back shift soothingly.

"I've…been appointed Listener…" I glanced up at him, for the first time since I found myself in the pool. It should be his job. He didn't look upset.

"Then she made a good choice," he whispered. I know he hates being a bureaucrat…maybe he'll change his mind, under the new regime…

"Come back as Speaker?" I made it a question.

I need you to.

_I_ need you…myself.

"Yes." Good.

"And Vicente?" I asked hoarsely.

"I've explained it, it's all right. I will ask him, though."

Just like calming a panicky horse…I don't know whether to be upset...except I feel so comfortable, and _safe_. Sheltered. Protected, while my defenses are low.

"What have I told you, Sarielle," came Vicente's voice a moment later, just before Lucien whispered about getting me out of the water, "about volunteering for _anything_?" He reached down and grabbed me under the arms, lifting me gently and effortlessly back onto the deck.

I crossed my arms and didn't look at him until he raised my chin and made me. There was no anger, no resentment, just a sort of…I don't know. It's not something that is easy to articulate…but it wasn't anything bad.

"Gung-ho volunteer." But Vicente didn't sound angry. He didn't look as though we'd ever had a fight, except when he looked at me now, I saw a note of caution – caution as he made sure I wasn't plotting anything. "That's my girl."

I hugged him – I'd have much rather stayed clinging to Lucien, who climbed out behind me, but something about propriety…I'm going to follow Shadowmere's advice, as soon as I'm feeling a little better.

I let Vicente go and staggered back, catching the hem of my robes and nearly falling.

"Are you all right?" Vicente asked.

"I feel sick…" It was the best I could manage.

"She's been spelled – I took it off," Lucien volunteered. His mouth twitched toward a smile. "If you'll permit me, Listener?" He stood me up straight, and let me lean on his arm.

I looked from Lucien to Vicente. "You're laughing at me…aren't you?"

They were – and fervently denied any such thing.

"I can walk," I grunted. Great, I'm the new Listener and half the Black Hand is already laughing at me…what next...whoa!

"Steady," Vicente and Lucien both caught my arms as I tried to stomp off, and only succeeded in overbalancing and tipping over. Why did she spell me?

"I'm okay," I grunted.

"So says the woman with jellified knees," Lucien said. "Better head off those tyrant guardians of hers. They see her like this she'll never get a moment's piece."

"Indeed," there was something…odd…in Vicente's tone as he turned and swept off.

"Off we go," Lucien started to walk, slowly, letting me lean on him.

I reached the door to the pool room and had to stop, shaking my head. "It's a nasty spell…" I panted.

"It happens when pressure lets off – the spell just triggered a natural response," Lucien babbled – well, it sounded like babble to my exhausted brain. A moment later, as I was still leaning on the doorframe, Lucien sighed and then let go of my arm. "Excuse me," he said and then promptly scooped me up. I felt the feather spell take, and groans in embarrassment that I was having to be carried around.

"I can wait a few and try again…"I protested, shifting slightly, so my cheek rested against his chest. Yes, I could…but it wouldn't be nearly as comfortable. I could smell his soap.

Sandalwood. Like it always is.

"Yes, you could," Lucien agreed. "But more likely you'll fall asleep on the floor, and I'll wind up doing this anyway." .

I closed my eyes, enjoying my current predicament. It won't happen ever again, I'm sure.

"Here we are," Lucien somehow got the door open, crossed the room and set me down on one side of the bed, the fluffy blanket different from what was there previously. The mattress, too, was different –I no longer needed a board under it, to keep me from sinking too far in.

I closed my eyes and they didn't want to open again.

Lucien's hand touched my cheek, rough fingers against my soft skin. All assassins get rough hands – it's an occupational hazard. Nevertheless, I turned towards the gesture. For a moment, my eyes still shut, I felt warm breath against my lips, an almost teasing sensation. I'm sure it's not meant that way.

Oh go on…I won't slap you, I promise…in fact…I'm sure I'd enjoy being kissed by you. Even if I feel particularly…what's the word?..._vulnerable_, just now.

Nothing happened. Oh…dammit…just _kiss_ me already! It's not a big thing! What's the matter with you?!

"Sleep well," Lucien said quietly, and touched my forehead.

I didn't respond as the lights dimmed, as the door closed. once it had I felt tears sting my eyes and I managed to roll onto my other side, curling up like a kitten. Does he _want_ to kiss me or not? Does he even _know_ what he wants? Because if not, _I do. _

And what's with the fatigue spell? I don't understand _her_ motives…unless she wanted someone to see me weaker than I usually am…


	71. Chapter 71

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Seventy: The Return

--

Lucien shifted, I think he moved so he could see me a little better, though I was still blocking out the world. I'd never be in this position in the real world...and I knew as that thought trickled into my head that I would have to let go soon…and face the real world. Without strong arms, without this…comfort.

I swallowed. I don't want to face the real world. It _hurts._

I opened my eyes swallowing again, then reached up to kiss him gently across the mouth, my lips trembling with too many repressed emotions, too many things I wasn't screaming. I closed my eyes again, joyous relief welling up like pure water in my soul when he kissed me back. Kissed me like he really, truly wanted me. It was like being fished out of freezing water, and tucked somewhere safe…

Like drowning, and finding that one little pocket of air—you gulp it down, and for the few minutes it lasts it's like heaven.

I slid my arms more securely around him, only vaguely aware of the pressure of his grip on me shifting as I tilted my head and let him kiss his way down my jaw, stopping at the collar of my armor. If we're not careful our armor is going to get hung up, and that'll make getting it off a little difficult…

Warm bliss; just take me out of this life…even if it's only for a little while. My fingers found the collar of his armor, then the nape of his neck.

Time stretched, and I realized that too much time had passed, with nothing happening. I shifted. "What?" I asked softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. He stopped my hand halfway there…but gently, as if it cost him something to do it.

I swallowed in confusion. What? Why? What did I do?

Lucien tucked my head back between his shoulder and his cheek. "No."

"Why?" I gasped, almost put to tears by the one little word. _Why?_

I'm not asking you to love me...I'm not even asking you to feel anything for me…I just know that right now…you're the only one who can ease the pain. And I _hurt_. I'm _screaming_…I looked up. Don't make me face these nightmares alone…I can't do it… "It _hurts_," I managed to grit out, though not sure how everything that hurt could fit comfortably into those two words.

"I know," Lucien said quietly, meeting my gaze, which hurt more, because there was pain there, too. Pain and something like…like I would expect to see on the face of someone who had unwittingly betrayed me, to the point of causing great harm…and regret. There's some mollification in that, but not enough to make a difference. Would it be this way, if I were some blond, buxom, brainless bimbo? "And I refuse to hurt you any more than I already have," he said.

Shatter the mirror of my world…I numbly bowed my head until it rested against his shoulder, too hurt, too shattered. I closed my eyes. You can't hurt me any worse that I already am…trust me…this is as hurt as I get…

"Sarielle?"

"Yes." It was not a question. I was surprised how empty word was. It might have been a single word, in its own paragraph, on a sheet of paper.

--S--

I woke up with a start, cheeks burning, still feeling weak, exhausted. Oddly, I felt hurt, as if someone had driven spike through my heart…that was no dream. It was a memory…one I hadn't relived for the Night Mother and Arquen…I wonder, was it because it had simply been hidden by all the others…or because she felt I deserved to keep that moment of weakness, of pain to myself?

Claude had shuffled in with warm wine, and I caught Lucien's shadow vanishing, like the tears that stung my eyes while sleeping did now. "What's going on?" I slurred to the guardian.

Slowly, Claude signed that Lucien had heard me shout in my sleep - the whole staff of guardians had heard as well – and had come to check on me, while a soothing draught was prepared. I had awakened a few moments later, the rest I had plainly seen.

I drank said draught and nodded sleepily…always keeping an eye on things…

--S--

It took a day or two before I was finally ready to travel – sleeping off my recent weeks, and eating more than was probably good for me. Gogron kept making massive batches of chili-cheese bread - to the displeasure of the guardians. It was hilarious to watch the two forces try to battle things out in the kitchen. Gogron would start a recipe, the guardians would try to foil him—they'd steal his ingredients, steal his equipment…whatever they could do until I finally called them off.

And then they sulked.

On the upside, though, it only took a few days for any ill-feeling or resentment from the others about my duplicity to simmer down and vanish. I strongly suspect Lucien talked to them about it – and explained what kind of hell I'd been suffering these past weeks. Antoinetta was really clingy, from the time I got up and rejoined the waking world until we left Deepscorn. She even offered me her fragrant pillow –an offer I declined. My nightmares weren't bad just…disturbing.

And some of them weren't actually _nightmares_ at all. These stayed wholly private, because the content was likely to make me blush. I don't need to crap I'd get for that. Hey – I'm human. It happens.

Regardless, I want to get back to Cheydinhal –it's where we belong. As Listener, there's plenty to do – Vicente's already gone ahead, but Lucien is here with the rest of us, and plans to head north when we do. It'll be great – all of us on the road, like family…

"Lucien?" My voice echoed slightly in the stone corridor, as I stopped at the head of it, hand resting against the wall, cool, pitted stone beneath my fingertips.

Lucien stopped like a cat – as if every muscle had suddenly ceased to move.

I've noticed most of us move that way – we react to a stimulus faster than a normal person. Then he turned, his Speaker's robes folded, freshly laundered over one arm, his expression polite but…distant. It's been this way for a while now – it's not that he can't bring himself to look at me…but sometimes it seems we both carry silent scars, he and I, from our gamble to save the lives of those we love.

It's strained something between us.

I don't blame him, I wouldn't change anything I've done. Nothing. Unless I could have known who J'Ghasta was…but then who could say? I might never have gotten to Anvil…might never have turned up the damning evidence that ended Bellamont's threat as surely as it exonerated my Sanctuary.

Ashes ashes we all fall dead.

I shuffled forward a little, still achy from the battle in the Night Mother's crypt. It hadn't exactly been a cakewalk. More than that I was psychologically tired. I slept a lot, still…and I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't some sort of lingering malaise, apart from exhaustion, chipping away at us both.

Lucien looked absolutely…no, not harassed. But decidedly under some strain, which I thought would have lessened with this whole Bellamont issue over and done with. I walked up to him, chewing my lip absently, peering up into his face. Fewer lines, less care, but the scruffy face fuzz is still there. The height difference was more noticeable than usual because he was wearing boots and I my indoor shoes. The first time I made this observation I felt…vulnerable...intimidated even, by the imposing man in black. Now…well, I was just aware of it, and that was the end of the matter.

My stomach jittered nervously. I don't like seeing him bugged over nothing –it makes me feel like I might have missed something. My face must have reflected this sort of mild suspicion that all was not as well as it should be. Habits acquired over the last few weeks, I suppose, but hard to break. "I…" I started but stopped, not sure what I was supposed to say.

Part of me wanted to tell him about the burgeoning warmth in the frozen lump that was once my heart, forcing the blackened, withered thing to beat again. Of all the loss I'd suffered…thought I'd suffered, it was losing him, like that…it cut so deeply, I thought the wound would never heal.

But as always, I held my silence – afraid of what it could lead to. More afraid, now, that it would come to nothing. At least this way I had hope, a feeble comfort though it was…because hope isn't warm, or alive. It doesn't touch you, or hold you, or speak, or do anything except keep you putting one foot in front of the other…and even then you begin to wonder 'for what? Why even bother?'.

Knowledge like that is something you can only live with. It shoots, sharp and painful through the heart – even a withered, shattered, broken, trod-upon heart, such as the one that tries to beat within my breast.

Lucien lifted a hand slowly – he talks with his hands, like most people do –then seemed to abandon whatever he was going to say with an exhale that hinted at frustration. An inability to articulate- which for Lucien is quite an issue. He's used to communicating well. What could be so hard to say that he couldn't just say it? We'd been through enough, hedging words is only something we do for fun, for amusement. It serves no other purpose.

I looked down and then nodded – articulating without words that I understood myself to be dismissed, quite forgetting I now outrank him. This knowledge however, was an aside, something completely unrelated to the two people standing in the hallway of a forgotten, hidden retreat, meant to harbor those who perform dark deeds in darker nights.

I can think of a couple more I'd like to add to the list…

Like a fool, remembering the last time we'd been in a situation like this, I took a half pace back to allow myself room to turn, jaw trembling slightly. This is it - I'll just walk back up the way I had come, probably back to my bedroom, or my office, when the hand Lucien meant to use to gesticulate suddenly flicked up, then was cradling the back of my head and he'd brought our mouths crashing together – which hurt a little, because I wasn't expecting it. Off balance I stumbled, but his free hand came to rest against my waist to keep me balanced.

Catching his kiss before it stayed accidental for more than a second I closed my eyes. This is how it's supposed to be…

In fraction of a second between the time our lips met and I gave him a reason not to step back, he was kissing me as if he'd never get another chance, and probably waiting for the traditional emergency brake on this type of situation—me to slap him stupid.

Stupider.

Which I had absolutely no desire to do, with his lips pressed firmly against mine…so close to another living being…_this_ one, to be precise, made my stomach bunch up in knots. _People_ are warm and yielding in a way that dreams and wishes never are. _Alive_. And real...and _alive…right here. _My mind jittered, at odds with itself – danger versus desire…and then shut off the argument completely. It doesn't matter. We're both in our right minds…more or less.

I reached up a little sluggishly to cup his elbows in my hands. There was a sound of fabric dropping as he let his robes slide off his arm to wrap it around me, dragging me against him in a tight grip that let me feel every buckle, catch and stud in his armor though the fabric of my normal clothes, digging into my skin, making me twice as aware of the lean body beneath, making my stomach writhe and turn on itself. It was so good to feel his touch as more than just a vague pressure against my armor.

In the seconds it took to raise my hands, he deepened the kiss until it was possibly the most personal, intimate moment of my life. I've been kissed before but not quite like this…and I could get to like it...

I don't know how he got me wedged between the wall and himself, but he did. I could stay like this forever…I curled around him as best I could, fingers brushing the back of his neck- one of the few places not covered by that damned armor. Forget dangerous. Forget rumors. Who cares? Who is going to _dare_ say a word to me? I'm the Listener now…

The moment was suddenly over, and we were standing on opposing sides of the corridor. I was still leaning against the wall – not that I didn't trust my knees, I don't believe that assassins are prone to wobbly knees, not just from a kiss…but the sound of my hurried breathing was loud in my ears, like the pounding of my heart.

Damn…that is _the _best I've ever had. How did I know that'd be the case? Because I'm…what? 'Emotionally involved'?

A moment later I was by myself – which means that whatever _this_ was, it wasn't planned. Unexpected, a lapse in the usual order of things. Lucien likes things planned out, so he knows how things are going, where they go. Disorder, chaos, sudden changes of plan, these things unnerve him a bit, so he tries to avoid them. Plans for them, around them.

Not that I was complaining. I reached up, half-smiling and touched my trembling lips, then leaned over retrieving the robes Lucien had abandoned. "Ark," My voice echoed slightly and a moment later the dark guardian assigned the name of 'Ark' appeared.

He rasped to show he had arrived and I turned and handed him Lucien's robes. "See that these get back to Speaker Lachance," I ordered calmly, but a little huskily.

Slobber on his face. First good chance I get where we won't be interrupted.

Orders issued, I strode off in the opposite direction Lucien took. I know Deepscorn's twists and turns, it's quite labyrinthine.

Sitting down at my desk, I leaned forward, resting my head in my arms, shivering slightly. I could still _feel_ his hands roving across me, learning my shape by feel – the equivalent of a cursory look – and the room got very warm very quickly. Part of me wondered why my skin was still burning, why this one time, this one - by comparison to some – innocent moment affected me so deeply.

Then again…I already knew – because this was Lucien. And he's unique.

This is when he officially started avoiding me – or so it seemed. Maybe we're just that busy…but it seems weird. I used to trip over him all the time – now when we run into each other it's like a genuine accident.

And the only reason I can come up with, for him to keep sending me mixed signals is this—I'm _not_ a buxom blonde bimbo. I'm different…maybe even special.

--S--

"Arquen," it was a malediction I couldn't quite silence. Seeing the Altmer standing in Cheydinhal sanctuary was like discovering mold, mildew, rot and festering fungus under my bed. All at once.

The mer blanched slightly as I struggled to remind myself that I was _not_ Ungolim, and I was _not_ going to run a Speaker into the ground just because he or she was on my shit list…_until the end of time_.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in a more level tone, beckoning her into Ocheeva's office.

Ocheeva was still in transit, so I didn't feel bad about usurping her space for a few minutes. There wasn't really an office for me here – but I didn't mind.

"I…am here for your orders, dear…Honored Listener…" She changed track quickly when I narrowed my eyes. We're not exactly friends, you know…

…and don't call me dearest. Or even 'dear'. I don't like you enough to let it slide. "Orders. Report to Anvil sanctuary, you may return to your duties," I said dismissively. "I expect you there within the week, The Sanctuary Master will advise me of your arrival."

"An…Anvil, Honored Listener?"

I sat down behind Ocheeva's desk. "Anvil," It's well known I don't like being there, and I won't show up unless I have a good reason.

Arquen looked like she wanted to say something.

I sighed. "Speak your piece." I felt a little rankled, but forced myself to a sort of calm. "I am listening…" I couldn't stop a slight grin from touching my features. Listening.

Arquen opened her mouth just as the door opened and Lucien filled the doorway, looking a little harassed, and decidedly in no mood for fun, games, my smart-assed comments or Arquen's very existence. "Sarielle..." he stopped.

"Dear Speaker. I hope I find you well." It wasn't a question.

Lucien gave me a very empty, amiable smile and inclined his head. Ah, back to rigid formality –should I just kiss him winded…do you think? No – Arquen's still here, dammit, and this office door doesn't lock. Bad timing. I bit my lower lip and wondered what had dragged him to my temporary office, when he was so obviously was avoiding me.

"Exceptionally. One forgets how nice it is to be _breathing_," Lucien said delicately, his mouth smiled, but there was something hard behind his eyes when he looked over at Arquen. It hadn't been there when he'd looked at me, I gladly noticed. "I trust I'm not...interrupting?"

Arquen was frowning. "You are," she said, but she didn't look half so confident as she used to. "And you may wish to consider addressing the Listener properly, Lachance..."

"And you may wish to address my Speaker a little more politely Arquen," I said mildly. "Lucien, would you please give Arquen and I a moment – she had a few things she wanted to get off her chest before she left to take up her post and duties."

Lucien cut a very courtly bow, smirking slightly. He withdrew, closing the door as he went. "Continue," I ordered pedantically.

Arquen was watching the door. "Honored Listener…I…swear to you..all I did…"

I held up a hand. "You did for the good of the Family," I finished for her. "Yes, I know," I really did know. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the same league as some of the players, and simply didn't have the head for subterfuge. "I believe you appointed Bellamont Speaker, after his died. Didn't you?" I asked.

Arquen's mouth trembled. I wondered if she thought I was going to kill her.

"Yes, things could have gone very badly," I said, twisting the knife, as it were. "But all worked out in the end. I trust you'll…learn from this fiasco. Was there anything else, now that your loyalties are not in question?"

"I…no, honored Listener." She bowed as Lucien had and backed up to withdraw.

"Oh…Arquen?"

"Madam?" She looked nervous again.

"I'm not Ungolim, to run someone ragged on the basis of personal and petty dislikes. But that doesn't mean we're friends. Do you understand?"

Understand that you're on my shit list…for a very long time. I want you to know where we stand.

Arquen wordlessly bowed and withdrew.

Lucien prowled in and waited until the door closed. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything too terribly important."

I smirked. "No, not really – but Arquen would have been mortified if there had been an audience. What's up?" I asked rather cheerfully.

"Trouble," Lucien produced a scroll of parchment and walked over, holding it out.

"_More_?" I really had to reach to take it from him, but I didn't open it right away. "Trouble? Like the normal variety or something worse?"

"Worse," he jerked his chin slightly at the paper.

I sighed and opened it, admiring, not for the first time, the elegant penmanship. Familiar penmanship.

Stress my ass – how could I have been so _stupid_? "Oh shit…" my mouth dropped open as I realized what I was reading.

"Indeed – hip deep, if I may say," Lucien answered, shaking his head. "Some welcome wagon."

Yeah – I could think of a few things I'd rather do to celebrate my promotion…none of them feasible in this office, and none of them on this scrap of paper. Dammit. "That's a lovely visual, but we've no time for barbs – we'll…play…later," Oooh! Good one Sari! I wonder if he picked up on that…yes, yes he did (innards stop squirming) and he doesn't look like he thinks it's too bad of an idea. Just…not right now.

Well, if he's white, and white makes the opening move – back at Deepscorn –I'm black, so the next move is mine. Hmm. I handed back the parchment, grabbing my cloak from the back of Ocheeva's chair just as she walked in.

"Honored Listener, Honored Speaker," she bowed, smiling Argonian fashion at us.

"No time for that, Ocheeva, we're back in the shit."

"Already?" Ocheeva smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation.

I chuckled as Ocheeva cocked her head. Even Lucien had to bite his lower lip not to laugh. "Get the Family together – as quickly as you can. Head for the Imperial City –wait for me there. I'll take Shadowmere and get the others off their asses – Lucien," I'm all business, "get word to Vicente, you'll be closest, then get yourself to the Imperial City, I'll meet you, and Vicente at the Tiber Septim Inn…Arquen!" I took off at a trot. The elf wouldn't have gotten far.

I vaguely heard Lucien telling Ocheeva –very rapidly – a condensed version of what was going on.

We have _got _to get a better communication system together, because the party just got started.


	72. Chapter 72

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--

Chapter Seventy-One: The End…and the Beginning

--

_That _is something I hope never to see again in my life. A hundred-foot or more, probably more, Mehrunes Dagon—four arms, red skin, nasty temper, the works. The streets of the Imperial City literally flooded with Daedra, Legionnaires, and Blades, total chaos in a new sense of the word.

Fortunately, Lucien and Vicente—wearing a cloth-wrap sort of mask along with his cowl—caught up with me before the mess really started, most of the remaining family following discreetly in their wake. Dressed like normal individuals—save that we three were wearing black—I was glad I'd thought to order as many of the Family here as possible—picking off Mehrunes Dagon's minions as much as possible, keeping them from overwhelming the guard.

"There!"

With the Emperor apparent in the city, making his formal presentation of intent to rule to High Chancellor Ocato, we headed immediately for the palace district, finding them just past the entrance to the Temple District, arguing.

Well, Ailirah in her short, red-headed glory was shouting spectacularly at Martin, who was shouting just as spectacularly back, while Ocato and several Blades looked on in shock. Surprisingly she no longer wielded dual battle axes, but a long, slender weapon that looked like the bastard child of a mage's staff and an Akaviri katana. It was taller than she was.

"How long have you had that evil thing?" Martin demanded, eyes bugging at something Ailirah had probably offered to 'give' Mehrunes' Dagon—and by 'give' I mean 'shove wherever she can get it,' causing that Daedra Prince some _real_ problems.

"What did you think I went looking for? Tea and cakes? If it's his, chances are it can _hurt_ him…" Ailirah shouted, red in the face, totally ignoring Vicente, Lucien and myself as we strode up, the battle lulling around us, but raging further ahead as Mehrunes Dagon, unable to clearly see this little knot of people for what it was, contented himself with knocking over walls, trees and buildings.

"He will _kill_ you..." Martin snapped back. Ooh, that's a very protective look he's got there.

"Yeah, well he'll kill _all_ of us if we don't do something!" Ailirah snapped back, her voice rising. True Nord (well, half-Nord) fashion: she yells, she doesn't scream. Nords are known for being able to produce a lot of sound at will.

Wedding bells in six months—I can see it now.

"We need a plan, not nonsensical heroics!" Martin shouted finally, apparently losing all sense of 'quietly'.

Ailirah stepped back a half a step, looking like he had just slapped her sharply. "Nonsensical heroics, is it? Then get your ass back in the castle, _E__mperor_!" She barked back, rallying as she took an aggressive step forward.

Wow, sparks are really flying.

"Enough of this!" The oldest Blade present broke up the argument, Martin's turn to look like someone had slapped him.

"Are we interrupting?" I asked sharply over the Blade. "Because if you haven't noticed, there's a war on," I jerked my chin over at Mehrunes Dagon. "Just there."

"You…" Jauffre immediately recognized something about Vicente and Lucien.

There was a nasty moment when the guards and assassins gave each other dubious 'do you really want to get tough with me' looks. Needless to say, Lucien and Vicente have had much more practice. The guards looked to their leaders for instruction, hands on their weapons.

"I'd put those away before you make a life-ending mistake." Lucien announced very politely, but with an undertone of malice that made my skin prickle into gooseflesh.

"This is hardly the time for this nonsense—call your mutts off, Ailirah—or face _that_," I gestured with my free hand to the rampaging Daedra Prince, "alone."

"Oh…it's you…I wondered if you were gonna show up," her eyes swept my armor as she grinned. No one was wearing Black Hand robes today, it was too glaringly obvious. Better we blend in, and not wear the equivalent of signs saying 'shoot me now!' "You usually do, but I'm a little surprised by…"

"Cut the babble—you need a distraction. It took some doing to _get_ here—I'll be very disappointed if you _don't point those frog-stickers in a more useful direction!" _The last came out as a snarl that made the guards—but not the Blades—back up.

"We don't have time for this—you heard her," Ailirah said impatiently.

"But they're Dark..."

"I _know_, it's kind of _obvious_," Ailirah snarled at the Redguard. "But right now, I'd accept help from blue _monkeys_, okay?"

"We've got to get to the Temple," Martin said suddenly, looking up, then at Ailirah. "Now."

"If you intend to run for the Temple, I do suggest you begin _now_—he will tear this city apart, looking for the priest…ah, emperor, of course," Lucien corrected himself.

Hey—what's with the hostility?

Ailirah and Martin both made faces. I wasn't wearing robes so I couldn't discreetly kick Lucien in the ankle. "Indeed—I suggest you pull it together—even we can only buy so much time," I simply declared, unshouldering my new bow. It wasn't Shadowhunt, but it was a good one, green glass embedded in silken-smooth wood.

"Wait…wh…"

I sighed in annoyance. "You'll talk us all into an early grave, girl. We have no interest in seeing the Daedra come to power—it would render us obsolete. We are, whatever else, a business…and as long as there are men and mer…"

"Business is good," Lucien responded idly.

"Yes, business is very good," I added and turned. "Go!" I barked, bounding forward into the fray itself, picking off Daedra from a distance as long as I could, losing track of Lucien and Vicente in the fight.

Everyone knew Ailirah and Martin reached the Temple in one piece, because within moments of their vanishing from my line of view the Temple of the One seemed to explode as a dragon, an avatar burst free, sending roofing material and stone blocks showering down.

Lucien appeared at my shoulder and yanked me towards previously fallen rubble, using it as cover as the deafening sounds of the luminous dragon screaming at Mehrunes Dagon rent the air, like a knife through wet paper.

"Do you think this will change anything?" Lucien panted as he wobbled slightly, practically yelling in my ear to be heard. He's a mage of no mean skill, but after indeterminable minutes of flinging just about everything he had at that overgrown, ego-toting, muscle-bound megalomaniac Mehrunes Dagon, he was showing the classical signs of mage's overexertion.

I reached clumsily into a pouch on my belt and produced homemade toffee—which any mage should have—and handed one to him before cramming one in my own mouth. "I don't know," I selected a shaft and launched it around our temporary cover, the arrow trailing blue sparks and fizzles after it, felling someone else's clannfear. "I think this is our last straw. What do you think?"

"I think that Septim brat is a numbskull…." Lucien's words were garbled because of an altercation between the toffee and his teeth, but I understood the garble and smiled. "…runs in his family…"

"Now now, don't get jealous. I didn't have you figured for a hero type."

"Hero type? So says the one leading the entire Assassin's guild into broad daylight…" Lucien scoffed, but there was, despite the bad situation, teasing in his tone. Our usual banter.

"It's kind of cloudy…" I said lightly, though my tone remained strained, then I chuckled as I loosed another shaft. "Even if they fail…that Ailirah girl could just talk his ears off—he'll run back to Oblivion just to be away from her…."

This was a funny comment, but got no laughs because a moment later there was a brilliant flash of light and rubble as a magical boom exploded, knocking everyone down. I hit the ground, and found I had landed with Lucien's arm under my head and shoulder. I sat up, once I realized the air was still and looked around.

No Daedra. No Mehrunes Dagon…nothing…

I got slowly to my feet, and pulled Lucien to sitting, looking around. "They're gone…" I breathed, noting other heads popping up, and a low murmur arising from those present.

"No shit," Lucien grunted and handed me back my bow. "There," he pointed back towards the Temple.

The dragon, which before was luminous, powerful and alive, was nothing more than a white-stone statue, rampaging and terribly large. "That's…it?" I demanded, a little disappointed.

We dragged our asses from all over Tamriel for _that_?

Apparently so.

A moment later a human scream rent the air. I closed my eyes—I know that scream. I bore it silently for what feels like a very long time.

--S--

I knelt, quite invisible at the feet of the statue of the Lucky Old Lady, our Mother. Bravil fog drifted in the balmy night. "Sweet mother," I began.

"Ah…there you are…" the soft whispering hiss of the Mother's voice filled my ears as well as my head, as if she were standing nearby, breathing over my shoulder. "Give your report, Listener."

Inclining my head, I got off my knees to stand, though I kept my head bowed. "The Oblivion Crisis is resolved…" I began, but did not go into detail. I detailed the restructuring, the whole array of issues, those resolved and in progress.

It's amazing what you can get done in an over-packed-with-work-week. I already need a holiday.

The bad news is, apparently Martin Septim sacrificed himself to stop Mehrunes Dagon, which leaves Ailirah the Gatewalker as Imperial Champion, the Empire without an Emperor, and a lot of little loose ends that are going to eventually fray the fabric of everything we know.

Fortunately, there has always been, and will always be, a need for good assassins. Especially in these uncertain times.

"Something yet troubles you." It was not a question.

I bit my lip and winced. I've done that so often this past week, my lips are just a mess.

The matter was personal to say the least. Ever since the moment of lapsed judgment in Deepscorn Hollow, Lucien had been not quite avoiding me, but damn close to it. I was beginning to tire of his quiet attitude, so unlike those to which I've grown accustomed. He's being closed-mouthed...and he's driving me mad…and not in a good way.

Not in the way I'd _like_ to be driven mad by him, either.

Part of me wants to take the matter into my own hands and see if I can't snap his funk like a little twig and see what kind of interesting aftermaths occur—but that would be, in the long run, rather cruel. But I am getting fed up with him—this is, I'm sure, something to try and patch over that one moment—mistake—in order to protect himself. Or maybe he really doesn't know how to move forward with regards to me and needs a good kick in the right direction.

I don't think Lucien's current funk has _anything_ to do with the fact that I'm the Listener and he's a Speaker—propriety is useful only when it suits him…

"Listener."

"I'm sorry, Mother," I looked up at the cast-metal face of the statue and bit my lip. Ow.

"Ah—man trouble."

I blinked a little perplexedly…not sure I wanted to know how she knew this was the case. Then again, I'm sure she's got advice to offer on the topic.

"I've had my share…"she declared, followed by a long pause as if she was considering, and I let her think. Then there was a dry chuckle. "Is the feeling mutual?" she asked with interest.

"From my side or his?" I asked without thinking then winced.

Another dry chuckle. "Yours. _He _at least, is being obvious."

_Ow. _I didn't blush but I wanted to. I would have thought that I had been pretty obvious too—so why had the whole thing just stalled like that? Ugh…men… "Yes…"

"Then be the Listener and make your will known…" there was a chuckle. "I doubt this is the sort of thing you can fix by asking nicely, or fluttering your eyelashes."

Yeah, she's probably right.

I got the list of contacts needing to be made, and then, at the end of the interview, I was told—in effect—that this was a case where I had to do the hard part. The pieces were set—once one fell over, they'd all fall…and in a pleasing way.

I wondered if Lucien hadn't come to voice thoughts to the statue—I get the feeling that while the Night Mother only talks to her Listener, she still listens to her Speakers…or maybe just Lucien. Because she likes him.

--S--

Lucien was not at Cheydinhal Sanctuary, meaning that if I wanted him to get on with his job, I'd need to deliver them personally…which, after a lot of thought, a few conversations with Shadowmere, and the Night Mother's advice, was not exactly a bad idea.

So without explaining to anyone what I was doing—except that it was work-related—I left Cheydinhal, and rode straight for Farragut.

--S--

"I thought we agreed you shouldn't come back here," I announced blandly, lighting the candle by my hand with a simple spell. The whole of Fort Farragut was a mess. None of the dark guardians survived. It looked in places as though someone—possibly Bellamont himself—had taken out his temper at not finding Lucien home out on the home in question. Well, at least the fetchers hadn't burned it. It had, however, sat in disrepair for more than a week—one thing after another…ugh.

Lucien stopped. He hadn't heard me, hadn't even sensed he wasn't alone. Then he picked me out of the dark, by voice alone. I saw some of the tension release. No doubt I'd had less than five seconds to be recognized, else I'd been picking daggers out of my hide. He's not jumpy, but he doesn't like being put off balance. Completely understandable.

"Indeed. And what are you doing here?" I couldn't see his face, but his tone was the same carefully measured, calculated one he'd been using for the better part of two weeks.

Almost…that dignified tone a person uses on a stranger, when they want to be polite but don't really care.

Well, we've had quite enough of _that_, I think. I'm no stranger, and I don't believe that this is the truth. I know Lucien well enough to know when he's faking—or so I've come to believe.

I smiled, though—it's good to know some things don't change. I sometimes think it's a bad thing, us being so familiar, now that I'm the Listener. Then again…I've never been much for rules and conformity. "I let myself in. I know you—you're not the sort to just do as you told because you were told…_especially_ not by one of your hand-picked best of the best. Not a good position for me to be in, I suppose…but," I shrugged to indicate I'd manage somehow.

I walked over to the bench before the fire—which I had put _back_ after finding it halfway across the room—and spoke the sign to light said fire. "I brought the contacts for your Sanctuary," I announced.

"Yes—Gogron said you'd left Cheydinhal with them. I figured you'd come here," Lucien nodded and flopped onto the bench. "You look tired."

The ambiance was so uncomfortable that finally I sighed and unshouldered my bag, dropped it to the ground and kicked it under the table. Lucien caught me looking at him, then looked away from me…this is it.

I think I understand his concern—he put me through a lot, never mind that I volunteered. It's sweet of him to not want to hurt me. I sat down beside him and then turned, reached up and tugged him over to kiss me again. He stayed startled only for a moment, before hesitantly returning the gesture, taking heart when I didn't pull away. I shifted, without breaking the kiss so I was kneeling on the bench, facing him, arms tangled around his neck.

I pulled away to breathe—I was breathing hard, winded by this unusual show of affection. "This can happen if you want it," I whispered, trailing one hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder. "I promise I'm in my right mind this time," I kissed his jaw and felt the pressure of his hand shift.

"That simple?" he breathed back.

Not really…the pressure of his hand moved up, slowly along my back to rest against the ball of my neck, beneath my hood and cowl. "I'll _make_ it that simple," I said. It's not an answer, it's a statement of fact.

I leaned forward, kissing him again, and the gesture shifted and deepened, a curious sort of testing the waters gesture. I was half-afraid he'd feel my heart pounding in my chest.

"Take your hair down," he breathed against my lips.

I teased him with a kiss and leaned back. "Take your _gloves_ off," but I reached up anyway and closed my eyes, smiling pleasurably as he kissed my throat, right above the tiny scar my own grief had put there. I had no trouble finding the pins that held my hair up as he did so, finger combing the braid loose. It struck me here that he's never actually seen me with my hair down. I gave my hair a toss, feeling it tumble loose, wavy from having been pulled up for so long, but even as I did warm hands slipped past my face, pulling my hair back and pulling me towards him.

I could get used to this.

So very quickly.


	73. Chapter 73

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Warning: contains mature themes and a couple jokes. Nothing too bad, but I want to warn you.

--

Epilogue

--

I woke up feeling pleasantly lazy. And warm. Either I had _really_ good dreams last night…or I wasn't sleeping alone. I smiled, and shifted slightly, snuggling up to the warm bulk nearby, smelling a mix of sandalwood, my own cherry blossom, sweat and things best not discussed in polite company. Warm fingers absently tangled in my sheet of blue-black hair, fumbling against my scalp. Opening my eyes, I craned my neck.

Lucien was still asleep, he never looks this relaxed when he's awake—the fingers in my hair were just reacting to the pleasant sensation of silky-soft strands. Wow, I'm going to have a hell of a time getting my hair brushed. Shifting to a more comfortable position, I tossed an arm across his torso, and breathed deep and slow. I like his soap, my eyes half-closed as I inhaled the scent, feeling very warm and very content.

Whole in a way I hadn't felt since I'd 'enacted' the Purification. Needed. Wanted. Loved. This made my spine prickle pleasurably.

My eyed closed—this was a nice place to be, a safe place. Though the way he slept so soundly, you'd think he _hadn't_ had a couple of days' vacation, hiding out in Deepscorn Hollow...which meant he had worried. Now whether he'd been worried about me, or about the outcome, or both, that was up for debate.

My vanity and pride both say he worried for me—the last night or so sort of indicated this was the case. My sense of practicality and pragmatism says 'worry about the outcome'. Maybe I should flip a coin. Ugh. Then I'd have to get _up_ to _fetch_ one, and that's not something I'm really inclined to do just now. I dragged my fingers delicately across his skin.

I let myself slip into a half-waking, half-sleeping state behind leaden eyelids. I'm happy to be free to cuddle and enjoy the sensation of being this close to another live human being—particularly _this _live human being.

_Mine_.

Which made me smile. I shifted my hand to rest against his diaphragm, feeling him breathe the deep, slow breaths of sleep. An assassin is always aware of breaths…we sometimes feel a pulse as it slows and ceases…but this was not like either of those situations, watching the life drain from a person. This was a silent, continuation of a life. A life that trusted to wake up the next morning, despite the dangerous creature coiled nearby.

And that works both ways, I'll have you know. Lucien's the most dangerous person in the world to me…my drug, my bad habit…the one person who could break me, if he had a mind to.

Which brought to mind the fact that before I go back to Cheydinhal Sanctuary, I need to take a bath and scrub. Really, really well—because M'raaj Dar will _smell_ Lucien on me…all over me. The sort of closeness, the cling of scent that would plainly tell exactly where I had been and what I'd been doing.

I don't feel like dealing with the racy jokes, or Gorgon's 'uh-huh—I thought so…' comments.

Lucien shifted onto his side, pulling me tightly into the hollow of his chest, the hand in my hair pulling free. I opened my eyes and looked at his sleeping features. I never noticed how long his eyelashes are…the freckle right in the middle of the small of his back—found that last night, actually, and I slipped my hand down to touch the mark. His face twitched and his mouth pulled into a sort of smile.

Then he shifted and leaned over and kissed me, long, deep and tender. "Morning," he breathed against my lips, smirking errantly.

"That's a hell of a good morning…makes me not want to get up," I said, licking my bottom lip slowly.

Lucien chuckled softly and opened his eyes. "Sounds like a plan." he closed his eyes, smirking.

It was my turn to chuckle. "Oh yeah?"

"Mmm hmm. I'm on holiday." One hand slid to the small of my back.

I chuckled softly. Holiday, is it?

"Mm…and so are you," he tightened his grip on me, in a rather possessive-protective way I did not find disturbing. "So unless you have pressing matters…" he reached up and tilted my head so he could kiss my neck, "I suggest you enjoy a well-earned break."

"If you have on your mind what I _think _is on your mind…" I've lost track of how long I've actually been here. Probably a couple days…but Lucien is good nightmare repellant, and Evander and a couple of the others have been reanimated…so…holiday is it.

"Hm?" he teased.

"…I doubt it'll be exactly restful…if you know what I mean…" But I was grinning too.

The trapdoor clanged.

I immediately dove for a knife that wasn't there and swore softly.

Lucien tapped my ankle and produced two daggers—I suspected from between the mattress and the bed frame. That doesn't surprise me in the least—I keep an extra between the mattress and my headboard.

"Lucien…" Vicente's voice was sharp.

"Oooh…" I whispered, and bit my lip—Vicente doesn't know I'm here. How's he going to react to his star pupils still cuddled up, not a stitch of clothing between them? Not well, that's for sure, it's more than any mentor wants to see—or think about. I hitched the sheet up higher and wrapped it partly around me, leaving Lucien the blanket, if he wanted it. I have no desire to let Vicente see me in a state of total undress. I really don't.

That rat—Vicente, I mean. He worries like a mother hen…but I can't quite be mad at him, even if his timing sucks. "I'm in here—what do you want?" Lucien said, in a good imitation of sleep-muffled tones, wrapping an arm around my collar bone and kissing my shoulder.

I giggled softly and settled back against him, smirking innocuously.

Vicente stalked into the room batting aside the heavy wall hanging that disguised the entrance—hence why I never saw any indication of Lucien's bedroom on any previous visit—and stopped dead. "Sweet Sithis…" He looked at me, draped in the wine-red silk sheet, my hair in total disarray, spilling around me like ink.

I bit my lip, trying not to smirk, smile, or otherwise show I was quite happy and proud to be where I was. "_Is_ there a problem, Vicente?" I asked sweetly.

Lucien ducked his head against my shoulder, snickering softly, giving my hip a squeeze.

Vicente didn't seem to know whether to walk out and wait for us to pull ourselves together, or just explode.

"_Is_ there a problem?" Lucien repeated the question, resting his chin on my shoulder.

I chuckled and reached up to try and finger comb my hair.

"Tell me that you have _not_ been holed up here for a day and a half…" Vicente began, trying to force calm.

"Oh no…" I smirked. "Kinky-ness all over the place—better watch your step." I said unblushingly, causing Lucien to give a sort of coughing snort and Vicente to close his eyes, wincing. I don't think he needed those pictures in his head. I wrapped my sheet a little more securely, tucking it so it wouldn't fall off and clambered onto the floor—which was very cold on my bare feet. "What's the matter? Is this a Speaker-Listener thing…or is it his brains and my killing arm again?" I asked, perfectly serious.

Vicente sighed. "More of a security thing—given the current climate, having the two of you just wandering off…" He ran his hands over his hair. "Surly you understand why the others are anxious."

I felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough for me to apologize. It's been a good holiday, so far. "It's sweet that you worried."

"Indeed," Vicente shook his head.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed. "Is this a 'get your ass back to the Sanctuary' thing?"

Vicente actually gave a sort of smirk. "Well, now that _I_ at least know where you are…I suppose it doesn't matter, Listener, Speaker." He was being a little sarcastic, and I can appreciate the reason. It must have been quite a scare, to have two of us just up and vanish, with the infrastructure so recently…shifted. Vicente turned to go then stopped. "Sari?"

"Yeah?" I cocked my head.

"Let the man get some sleep—he looks like he needs it."

I giggled at this and Vicente vanished. "Oh…we're all really bad…" getting to my feet again I sighed and stretched until my back crackled. "I don't know about _you_…but it's time for breakfast. Again…" Lucien was giving me a look that meant if I didn't get out of the room _right this second _breakfast was on hold.. "Yeah I know…bed-sheet is the new epitome if sexy house wear. Breakfast," I said and turned to stride out—or rather, shuffle, so as not to trip on the trailing material, which I wound up hitching out of the way of my feet with one hand.

"You have no idea," Lucien breathed, having slipped up behind me, sliding his hands across my waist and holding me against him.

And on that note, I _do_ look good in this bed sheet. Don't ask me why the man's got red sheets, but dark red is one of my best colors. I just don't wear it often.

"Breakfast, dammit!" I giggled, squealing as I pulled free, tripping on my sheet and banging into the doorframe. "I want real food!"

--

--THE END--

--

That's it! We're done!

Special thanks to my beta Pheonicia – she does such a wonderful job whipping my grammar, punctuation, spelling and typos into shape. You're a great cheerleader! (She's also a great writer – hint hint.)

Also, thanks to you, my reviewers – you have no idea how great a help your reviews are, to stave off writer's block. Virtual cookies, to you all. (Especially those of you who tell me to update. It's nice to hear. )

And also to Bethesda, because Oblivion is still theirs, not really mine. Sniffle.

See you all around!


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